


Pets

by wheel_pen



Series: End of the World [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alien Anthropologists, Alternate Universe, Destruction of Earth, Finn (wheel_pen), Kid Fic, M/M, Pet fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3953527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Planet Earth has been destroyed, and John is living with Sherlock and their three genetically-engineered children on a spaceship which is cruising the galaxy looking for places the remains of humanity can colonize. To Sherlock this seems like a great time to give the children some alien pets.</p><p>A series of scenes, which could be considered complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter the pets

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“Pets?” John repeated blankly. “Like cats or dogs, from the ones we rescued?”

Sherlock scoffed at this interpretation. “I have far more interesting pets in mind than _that_ , John,” he replied.

John did not know where his own mind should go with that. “Well, ought they to have pets at all, right now?” he hedged. Sherlock did not know what he meant. “We’re flying through space, trying to decide how to save the human race…? No? That doesn’t make a difference to you?”

“Well, the children are hardly involved in _that_ ,” Sherlock refuted, which was true. “And, children need pets to teach them responsibility.” He paused suddenly. “Or was it that children _make_ good pets?” he wondered. “Bother, now I’m getting mixed up.” A holographic display of text appeared in the air in front of him and he searched through it.

John leaned over his shoulder, always fascinated by this technology. “ _How to Raise Genetically-Engineered Children_?” he read of the title, dubiously.

Sherlock gave him a look. “You don’t agree a manual would be useful?” he surmised. “ _You’re_ the one who always says I ought to read the instructions.” Behind him John rolled his eyes. “Ah, here we are,” Sherlock announced with satisfaction, as a portion of the text grew larger. “ _Pets help children learn responsible behavior._ ” He paused again. “I suppose that’s important.”

“You never had a pet, did you?” John guessed dryly.

“No, and I turned out fine, so perhaps they’re not actually necessary,” Sherlock reversed, totally missing John’s point. “Well, I bought them already, so…”

“Sherlock!” John complained. “You ought to have discussed it with me first. Suppose the children don’t take to them?” he proposed. “Then we’ll be stuck looking after them, and let’s be honest, that means _me_.”

Sherlock dismissed this. “If the children don’t like them we’ll just put them in storage with the other creatures,” he planned.

John did not think that was a fair solution, treating a living thing like a toy to be put away if it was unwanted; but considering all the other animals who were stored that way onboard to save their lives, he didn’t think he could explain this properly to Sherlock. “Well, how many animals are we talking about here?” he tried.

“Three, one for each—“

“Well, surely they don’t _each_ need one. They could share.”

“—and they’re not all strictly animals,” Sherlock finished.

John had no idea what he could mean by that. “Is there a pet rock?” he guessed.

“No, I couldn’t find one with the right temperament,” Sherlock replied seriously. “Now are you fundamentally opposed to this, or shall we get on with it?”

John sighed, giving in, and Sherlock grinned at him in genuine excitement. John always told himself he was going to put his foot down more, but then Sherlock was so pleased with his own ideas, and so John ended up limiting himself to forbidding only the very worst, like letting the children pilot the ship or watch reality TV.

A few minutes later Sherlock had assembled the children in the playroom and gotten them worked up about what was in the red and white striped boxes behind him. “The pets aren’t _really_ in those, are they?” John checked in a whisper.

“Of course.”

“Do they have air holes somewhere, at least?”

Sherlock was getting tired of John’s pointless objections. “They’re fine,” he dismissed. Then he took a peek under a couple of lids just to be sure, which did not really give John confidence. Presenting the children with a _dead_ pet was something he would really have to come down hard against. “Okay! Lily, this is for you.” Sherlock pushed a tall, narrow box towards her.

With determination the girl lifted the lid and peered down into the box. “What is it?” Finn demanded to know. Lily reached in and pulled out a flower in a small pot, smiling at it. Finn was less enthused. “It’s just a plant,” he complained, and John tsked him.

“What a beautiful flower,” John complimented instead, relieved it wasn’t a giant cockroach or something (though there were still two boxes to go).

“It’s a walking daisy,” Sherlock explained to the girl. “Papa says you ought to read the manual first,” he added, a bit patronizingly. “Stroke its leaves gently and speak softly to it, so it gets used to you.” Lily began to do so.

“A walking daisy,” John repeated. “That’s so lovely. We’ll have to find some sunlight for it.” Suddenly the stem of the flower seemed to move of its own accord, turning its petals towards Lily. “Uh, did that just move?” John asked, suddenly much less tranquil about this pet.

“Well of course, John,” Sherlock responded, as if this should be obvious. “Walking daises are quite animate.” As he spoke one of the leaves began to curl around Lily’s finger and she giggled in delight.

“I think she likes me!” she declared. “Thank you, Daddy!”

“You’re welcome. You’ll have to clean up after it properly,” Sherlock warned. “It will follow you around leaving dirt behind otherwise.” Lily nodded dutifully.

“It’s not carnivorous, is it?” John asked, thinking of _Little Shop of Horrors_.

“No, of course not, those are only recommended for children ten and up,” Sherlock assured him.

“Oh good.”

“Where’s mine, where’s mine?” Finn wanted to know, impatient with eagerness.

“Hush,” Lily told him as her flower shied away from the noise. “You’re too loud!”

Finn responded by yelling even louder. “Finn,” John chided. Then he added dryly, “I think the flower will have to get used to it.”

“Alright, here’s yours.” Sherlock pushed a large box forward, then took off the lid himself and with both hands pulled out a creature to set on the floor in front of Finn (hurriedly wiping his hands off afterward). The animal had the head of a pug on a monkey’s tawny body (though no tail), long arms with pointy fingers, and flat feet reminiscent of a duck’s with no visible legs.

Adorable, it was not.

Finn didn’t seem to mind. “Hello,” he told it brightly. “Who are you?”

“Hello. Who are you?” replied the creature in a shockingly normal voice.

“J---s C----t,” John breathed.

“Don’t confuse it,” Sherlock hissed at him.

“I’m Finn!” Finn told it with delight.

“Finn!” the creature repeated in the same excited tone.

“Good boy!” Finn praised, patting its furry head.

“Good boy!” the creature enthused, patting Finn’s head in turn.

“It’s an imitative sloth,” Sherlock explained, as if that really explained anything.

Finn stuck out his tongue and the creature did too. Finn let out a whoop and waved his arms, and the creature did too. Then they both fell over, one after the other, and rolled on the floor, laughing. John had to smile at that.

“They don’t always have to mimic you,” Sherlock went on, though the novelty of this clearly hadn’t worn off for Finn yet. “They’re somewhat intelligent and you can train them to do simple tasks like fetch, or assist in an autopsy.” John turned to gaze at Sherlock, who seemed, per usual, perfectly serious.

Finn and the sloth tumbled too near Arthur and the smaller boy dashed away from the uncanny creature to John’s arms. “Hush now,” John soothed him when he made a noise of alarm. Was it his imagination—surely—or did the sloth look concerned? “I’m sure Finn won’t train his pet to do anything that bothers you. Will you?” he added pointedly.

“Well, I guess not,” Finn conceded with disappointment, as if he’d been plotting such things already.

“Not,” echoed the sloth, itching his head the same way Finn itched his.

“Do we have a pet for Arthur?” John prompted Sherlock, setting the boy back on the floor.

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock pushed the smallest box closer. It rocked on its own, then toppled sideways, spilling out a tiny dog. It reminded John of a dachshund, only quite a bit smaller, and with longer legs, each ending in a disproportionately large foot. It barked with delight at Arthur and jumped in the air, but then stilled and lay down immediately when the boy reacted warily. Encouraged by its quiet, Arthur reached out to pet it.

“The dog is slightly psychic,” Sherlock told John, “so it will understand commands from Arthur even though he doesn’t speak.”

John grinned at him. “That’s really brilliant, Sherlock,” he replied sincerely.

“Really?”

“Yes, so thoughtful.” John put his arm around Sherlock’s waist to pull him close. “I think you’ve made good choices. Certainly nothing _I’ve_ ever seen before,” he added dryly.

Just then Finn whooped, echoed by the imitative sloth, causing Lily to squeal, and her daisy flung itself from its pot and dashed across the carpet on its roots, leaving a trail of dirt as it dove under the couch, where Arthur’s dog started barking at it. Arthur had scrambled under the table when the tumult began. Finn and his sloth rocked back on their heels and laughed heartily, and John gave Sherlock a raised eyebrow. Somehow, he anticipated plenty of other odd occurrences to come.

**

Lily named her flower Lydia, and Finn named his sloth Roger. No one yet knew what Arthur had named his dog, except presumably the dog.

“Here is your sloth’s bed,” Sherlock announced, wheeling in a carpet-covered cylinder with two holes cut in it.

Finn and the sloth peered identically through the holes to the hollow interior. “Aw, can’t he sleep in my bed?” Finn complained.

“My bed,” the sloth echoed, climbing into the dark cavity on his own.

“No,” Sherlock told Finn firmly, which was a point on which John agreed. “You can keep this in your room, though. Don’t be surprised if he takes some of your clothing to make his nest.”

Lily, meanwhile, managed to coax her flower into another, larger pot. Hydroponics was apparently popular in the world of walking daisies, as this left trails of water rather than soil or sand when they decided to relocate. John was not yet convinced the plant really needed to be that mobile, however. Currently Lily was trying to train it to wash its roots in water first, before it coiled around her arm and rested its petals on her shoulder. It was cute, in a stranger fig kind of way.

Arthur seemed very happy with his puppy, whatever its name was, and taught it to do tricks like climb up a few blocks and ride in the back of his dump truck. It slept in a small box in his bedroom. Curiously, when they had to go “out,” both the sloth and the dog disappeared through a small door that normally wasn’t there—no one had taught them to do this that John knew, but it was quite convenient since none of them had to worry about cleaning up messes. The flower seemed to mind its own business well enough in this regard.

Food was another issue. Lily studied plant physiology texts and carefully prepared a nutrient mixture for Lydia, which she administered with an eyedropper into the flower’s pot. Roger ate mostly fruits and vegetables, with the occasional bit of cheese.

The dog had a little box of unappetizing food pellets, which John poured out carefully onto a scale every day. Arthur helped as he was able, but in sympathy would give the dog as much as he would eat (which was a lot) if left to his own devices. They also had to watch Roger’s plate to make sure the dog didn’t nip anything off of it. As far as John knew Lydia had no rivals for her food.

**

When John and Sherlock’s children went off to play with their cousins, which they often did, they didn’t usually take their pets with them. John said it was because the other children didn’t have such pets and he didn’t want to make them feel bad. But also it was because the other children found Lydia and Roger kind of creepy. The dog was popular, but Arthur didn’t like to share. One day when the children had gone out, John took it upon himself to research a suspicion that had been building in him for a while.

“Roger,” he called from the playroom couch, “come in here, please.” After a few moments of forced patience—he was a sloth, after all—Roger crept into the room from Finn’s bedroom. He preferred to knuckle-walk, swinging his body between his arms or lumbering like a three-legged beast, but he could also waddle on just his feet if his arms were otherwise occupied. Finn was teaching him to retrieve objects, throw and catch a ball, and put away the toys, so he had to be versatile.

“Hello, Roger,” John greeted. “Can you come up here?” The sloth clambered up John’s leg to sit on his knee. John noted that he had _not_ used any overt actions to signal what he wanted, like patting his leg. Roger seemed to understand verbal commands. “I’ve been reading the guide about imitative sloths,” John began, bringing up the holographic display. “It’s very interesting.” Roger blinked at him, slowly, and John was glad no one was around to witness this in case he was making a fool of himself. “It says here that some people believe imitative sloths are sentient. What do you think about that?”

“Think about that,” Roger echoed. He had a way of repeating things that put a different twist on their meaning.

“It does seem uncomfortable that a sentient being should be someone’s pet,” John went on leadingly.

“Someone’s pet,” Roger repeated. He put his arm up on the arm on the couch, trying to mimic John’s posture.

John was not fooled, though. “Well, I think you understand quite a lot of what’s going on,” he judged, “and I wanted to know if you were happy here.”

“Happy here.”

John reminded himself not to end his sentences with their own possible answers. “Finn can be rather boisterous at times—“

“Finn loves Roger!” the sloth interrupted. “Roger loves Finn!” John did not take this as proof positive; Finn had been teaching him to say this. He tried to see it with Sherlock’s skeptical eye.

“Would you rather be set free?”

At this the sloth said nothing, and blinked at him. John blinked back patiently, waiting for his response. After a long moment Roger lifted his arm, his pointed fingers flicking through the holographic manual rather deftly. Then he settled back onto John’s knee, leaving John to see what page he’d turned to.

“ _Natural habitat_ ,” John read of the section heading. “ _Native to jungles of Vox-7, which have now been destroyed for habitation by sentient Voxians_.” He glanced at Roger but his pug face was unreadable. “ _Now_ _bred and raised in captivity for companion trade_. So you don’t really have a home to be released to,” he concluded soberly. “Well, there must be other jungles, other places with sloths—“

“Roger loves Finn,” he repeated.

John sighed. “Well, alright. But you let me know if something’s wrong, okay?” he insisted. “If Finn forgets to feed you or something.”

Roger put his arm on John’s shoulder. “Roger loves John,” he asserted, and John had to grin.

“Well, you are rather endearing, somehow,” he admitted, rubbing the creature’s back. “But seriously, let me know if you need anything.”

“Strawberries,” Roger replied unexpectedly.

“Oh, you like strawberries? Well come on.” John stood, letting the sloth perch on his shoulder with an arm around his neck. “We’ll have a snack before Finn comes back.”


	2. Sloth Bath Day, Part 1

Imitative sloths were supposed to be bathed once a week, apparently. “And how long have you had him, without giving him a bath?” John asked Finn sternly.

“He doesn’t like baths!” Finn protested. The boy happened to agree on this point. “I tried before but he ran away.”

John looked over at the creature who was picking curiously at the blue and red paint crusted on his fur. It was from an art project—yesterday. “Well, he’s getting one today, and every week from now on,” John said firmly. “Part of taking care of your pet is keeping him clean.” Finn preferred teaching him tricks and experimenting with his food.

John queued up the sloth manual—they were fortunately rather popular as pets—and skimmed through the part on bathing. Seemed simple enough, he judged, leading Finn and Roger to the bathroom. “ _Sloths do not like getting wet_ ,” the guide said first thing, “ _so you may face some resistance from your pet_.” John glanced at Roger, who seemed content to cling to Finn like a backpack.

“ _Set a small basin in your bathtub and fill it with an inch of warm, not hot, water_. Okay,” John agreed. “A small basin, please.” One appeared to hand and he set it in the tub. “Turn on the water,” he instructed Finn. “Feel it with your hand, make sure it’s not too hot.” John slid the basin under the faucet to catch an inch or so of water, then pulled it back and shut the water off.

“ _Set your sloth into the basin and allow him to acclimate to the water_.” John turned to Finn. “Okay, Roger, come here.” Roger merely blinked at him, slowly. “Come on, Roger. Turn around,” he told Finn, but when the boy did, Roger slid smoothly to his front.

John was beginning to see what the book meant by ‘resistance.’ “Roger, you are having a bath now, and that’s all there is to it,” John told him resolutely, trying to pry him off Finn without hurting anyone. As soon as he got one limb detached it would bend around and cling to Finn again, and the boy giggled. “Don’t encourage him,” John warned.

“Don’t encourage, don’t encourage!” Roger echoed by way of protest as John finally pulled him away.

“Alright, down you go, it’s only an inch of water—“

Roger started to squeak and click, which was sloth language, presumably for ‘I don’t want a bath!’ Normally he spoke English, though. “He doesn’t like it!” Finn insisted, distressed.

“He’ll be fine,” John started to reply, impatiently, when suddenly two limbs shot from Roger’s underside, ending in his feet which gripped the edges of the basin and prevented John from lowering him further. “What the—Are those his _legs_?” he asked with some alarm. “I didn’t even know he _had_ legs—“

“Papa, he really doesn’t want to!” Finn said, sobbing now. Roger continued to squeak and click, rocked the basin with his feet, and flailed his arms like John was trying to boil him alive.

“Okay, okay,” John conceded. “Roger, stop, I’m not going to put you in the water. Let go—“ Roger let go of the basin and his legs retracted like they were made of springs. When John pulled him close, away from the tub, Roger wrapped his arms around John’s neck and buried his face against his shoulder, still squeaking. John hugged Finn against him as well, trying to comfort them both. “Honestly, it’s only a bath,” he said, not unkindly. “Calm down. Finn, shh, you know I wouldn’t hurt Roger.”

“I know,” Finn sniffled. “But he was so scared!”

“Well, how can we make this less scary for him?” John posed. Because the bath was definitely still happening. The animal had _paint_ on him, after all. “Okay. Roger? Let go a little.” He pulled the sloth back so he could look at him. “You are making a big fuss over nothing,” he pointed out.

“Nothing?” Roger echoed, his tone suggesting incredulity at John’s assessment.

“Alright, I’m going to put you—“ Squeak, squeak! “—in the tub, _not_ in the water,” John promised. Roger allowed himself to be set down on the cool porcelain beside the basin. “Now you just look in there,” John told him. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Timidly Roger peered into the basin at his own reflection, then reached one long arm in and touched the surface of the water with his fingertip. “Good boy!” Finn praised him. “It won’t hurt you.” Struck with sudden inspiration, the boy pulled a small boat from the bag of bath toys hanging nearby and dropped it into the water. “Look at the boat, Roger!” More willingly Roger poked at the boat, making it bob on the water. He forced it to submerge, then watched as it popped back up. “Here, look at this!” Finn said eagerly, adding a waterwheel that spun in colorful swirls. “That’s fun, isn’t it!”

Roger reached tentatively for the waterwheel, but then John swooped in and took it and the boat away. “No. If you want to play with the bath toys, you have to take a bath,” he ordered.

Finn nodded. “It’s a _rule_.”

The lure of the toy boat was strong, and—after further coaxing and praise—Roger finally lowered himself into the water. “It’ll be cold by now,” John predicted, rolling his eyes a bit, but at least Roger seemed content with the toys. “Okay. _Gently wipe your sloth with a damp cloth_ ,” he read, and began doing so, while Finn distracted Roger with new toys and chatter.

“ _Rinse gently with warm water_.” Steeling himself John turned on the handheld showerhead, setting it on a very light spray, and ghosted it over Roger, who no longer seemed distressed at all. “Did your legs get clean? There we go. I’m going to wipe your face now.” The book recommended using a mild pet shampoo once a month—no time like the present, John decided with a sigh, and carefully worked small amounts into Roger’s fur, holding a wash cloth over his eyes to protect them during rinsing.

“Okay, we now have a nice, clean sloth!” John announced brightly, lifting the dripping animal from the tub and wrapping him in a towel as he started to shiver. “ _Dry your sloth thoroughly using a hair dryer on the lowest setting_ ,” John muttered, and—rather foolishly, he admitted a moment later—aimed the hair dryer at Roger and turned it on.

This resulted in Finn getting an armload of wet, squeaking sloth. “Okay, okay,” John conceded. “Let’s start slower. This is a hair dryer. It’s going to blow nice, warm air on you.” He demonstrated on himself, making Finn laugh, then on Roger’s paw. Before too long the sloth was preening under the warm air, turning to stick his rear end out to John to make sure it was dried as well.

“Okay,” John sighed, as Roger—clean and dry—cuddled contentedly in Finn’s arms. “Have you been cleaning out his nest every week?” He could tell from Finn’s expression what the answer was.

“He doesn’t like that either,” Finn admitted, following John to his room.

“Sometimes sloths don’t like the things that are good for them,” John pointed out, “just like children.” Steeling himself John reached into the hollow cylinder and pulled out a pile of clothes, stiff and matted. Roger started to squeak again. “Here, you do this,” John instructed Finn, taking the sloth. “Just dump it down the laundry chute, and vacuum out the inside.” He knew Roger wouldn’t hurt Finn on purpose, but with all his protesting he might accidentally scratch him. “Hush, Roger,” he tried to soothe him. “You’re going to be nice and clean now.”

“Nice and clean!” Roger wailed, as if this was a death sentence.

“Okay, I got it!” Finn reported with satisfaction. “There was lots of loose fur in there! Should we brush him?”

John looked down at the tense bundle in his arms. “Let’s start doing that tomorrow,” he demurred. “I think he’s had enough for today. Grab a t-shirt or something for him to start his new nest with.”

“Here you go, Roger,” Finn said, offering him a green t-shirt. “It’s my favorite—“ Once released by John the sloth snatched at the cloth and disappeared into his nest.

“He is _not_ happy,” John noted.

“Not happy!” Roger agreed, from inside the cylinder.

“But he’ll get over it,” he promised Finn, who was looking a bit downcast. “Come on, let’s go do something fun, and leave him alone for a bit.”

**

Bathing Arthur’s dog was much easier, since the species apparently enjoyed the water. John just turned the shower on lightly and let the dog trot around underneath it, rubbing a little shampoo into his fur. He was not convinced the dog really understood what was going on, though, or at least he seemed to think it was great fun to get John and Arthur just as wet as _he_ was. But then a quick blow dry and a fresh towel for his little box, and he was done.

Lily’s flower was the easiest of all. “Does Lydia need to be cleaned?” John asked her, now paranoid. “How is that done?”

“Oh, I put her on the sink while I take a shower,” Lily assured him. “The steam washes the dust off her leaves and petals. She likes to be clean, you know.” At least _someone_ did.


	3. Roger makes himself at home

“Oh, this is a very interesting one,” John said, enthusiasm only slightly forced as he turned to a new page in Lily’s holographic insect encyclopedia.

“Look, this one has _Malpighian tubules_ ,” she noted with excitement, spinning the three-dimensional anatomical model around in the air. “Hmm, I think those are like the Rakian spironodes—“ She caused the model of another insect, this one from a different solar system, to appear beside the first, with the relevant bits highlighted in blue.

“Ah, convergent evolution,” John concluded, seeing the term discreetly highlighted in a box in the corner. “Independent origins, but doing the same job, so they come out looking—“

He was interrupted by a sharp cry, followed by Arthur wailing and his dog barking furiously, and he looked up to see Roger retreating hastily from the small boy to the protection of Finn’s arms. “What happened?” John asked, trying not to make too much of it.

Arthur could only point at Roger and sob, as his dog continued barking. “Roger didn’t do anything!” Finn was protesting, vigorous in his defense of his pet. “He was only trying to _play_ with Arthur! Arthur’s just being a baby!”

“Puppy!” John snapped at Arthur’s dog, who finally quieted though he still jumped around at John’s feet. He scooped Arthur up. “Hush, you’re alright. Did Roger scratch or bite you?”

“Roger doesn’t scratch or bite!” Finn insisted hotly.

“Roger doesn’t!” Roger echoed worriedly.

The answer from Arthur seemed to be no so John sat back down on the couch with the boy on one leg. “Alright, have you calmed down now? Now what did Roger do?”

“He didn’t—“ Finn started again, but John silenced him with a look.

Arthur signed inexpertly, trying to communicate; why Sherlock hadn’t thought this necessary earlier, John had no idea. “Ah,” John said anyway, as though he’d understood what Arthur was getting at. Fortunately they had technology on their side. “Let’s see what happened. Baker?”

A holographic video appeared on a bare spot on the carpet, showing a sparkly Arthur and his puppy playing with the blocks. Roger, bored with the book Finn was reading, waddled over and tentatively picked up a block to put on Arthur’s stack. That was when Arthur looked over, saw him right there, and started to squeal, probably more in surprise than anything else, John decided.

John waved the hologram away. Real Arthur pointed at where it had been accusingly, as if saying, ‘There, that’s what the villain did!’ In contrast Finn took this as proof of Roger’s innocence, holding the sloth close to him and starting to sulk.

“Well, it looked to _me_ like he was just trying to be friends with you,” John suggested to Arthur, who stuck out his lip. “Roger, can you come here, please? Stop,” he added to Arthur, who made as if to get down.

Tentatively the sloth swung himself over, waiting for further invitation to climb up on John’s knee. He and Arthur blinked at each other. “Now, I know you find Roger scary,” John said to Arthur, rubbing his back, “but he’s not going to hurt you.”

“Not going to hurt you,” Roger avowed, looking distressed. John rubbed his back, too.

“You don’t have to play with him if you don’t want to,” John promised Arthur, “but can you be friends, at least?” Of course friends _did_ usually play together, but Arthur was only four, and obviously not much for subtlety.

“Friends,” Roger echoed, and held out his paw.

Arthur stared at it for a moment, then looked up at John, who gave him a little nudge. Finally he reached out and briefly touched Roger’s pointy fingers. “There we go,” John announced brightly. “Are you friends now?”

“Roger loves Arthur!” Roger declared. For his part Arthur picked up his little dog, which had struggled up on the couch beside him, and held it out to Roger, who patted it gently. “Good dog,” Roger told it, and the dog licked his paw, which made Arthur giggle. Roger mimicked the giggle, which made Arthur laugh louder, which Roger also echoed.

John thought he’d had about enough of that. “Alright, good,” he enthused, encouraging them all to get down. Arthur and his dog went back to their blocks and Roger hopped back over to Finn for reassurance. John pulled Lily close again and they returned to her insect encyclopedia.

After a few minutes John saw, out of the corner of his eye, Roger creeping back towards Arthur. This time, however, the sloth stopped a couple feet away and started playing with some extra blocks on his own, stacking them randomly while glancing at Arthur to check his reaction. After a moment Arthur’s dog, presumably at the boy’s behest, nosed a block over to Roger, who added it to his pile. He offered another in return and Arthur put it in his dump truck. John decided to take this as a good sign and refocused on Lily’s insects.

**

“…I’m just saying, there ought to be some sort of standard,” John insisted. He chopped an apple into quarters and sliced off the core, before squirting the pieces with lemon juice.

“Sour,” Roger complained from his shoulder.

“That’s to keep them from getting brown,” John told him, distributing the chunks into plastic boxes. “You don’t like them to be brown.” He handed the sloth the core to nibble on.

“John, you have a very limited understanding of the galaxy,” Sherlock replied, in a patronizing, all-knowing alien kind of way. “Sentience is a _rather_ complex quality to judge.”

Roger dangled the inedible remains of the core in front of John’s face for him to discard. “Roger is self-aware, he has opinions, he understands complicated verbal commands—“

“Strawberry,” Roger interrupted, and John handed him a strawberry as he sliced the tops off a pile of them.

“—he recognizes himself in the mirror,” John went on. “He understands cause and effect, he can plan for the long term—“

“Banana.”

“Here. Don’t drop it on me, please. He can anticipate people’s reactions and empathize with them,” John continued to Sherlock. “Which is more than I can say about _you_ sometimes.”

Sherlock swiveled around from his microscope. “I _am_ , in fact, paying attention, John,” he asserted, in case he’d given the impression he wasn’t.

“Carrot.”

John handed Roger a baby carrot. “He uses tools,” John listed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He conveys messages. And, you can have an actual back-and-forth conversation with him.”

“Green bean.”

Sherlock snorted. “He’s certainly got _you_ well-trained,” he observed as John handed the sloth a green bean. “You give him food, shelter, and affection. Why should he aspire to be sentient, if indeed he’s capable of it? Then you’d kick him out of the playroom and put him to work washing dishes or something.”

“Kiwifruit.”

“Look, they’ve been bred to expect this is their only hope in life, haven’t they?” John tried to argue. He was interrupted by Roger stamping his feet on John’s shoulder.

“Fuzzy!” he complained of the kiwi slice John had given him.

“Well I’m not going to peel it _now_ ,” John protested. “It’s already sliced. Just don’t eat that part.” The sloth dropped the fuzzy brown kiwi peel down onto John’s work surface. “Roger! Well it’s _your_ food I’m preparing here,” he pointed out. Once a week he cut up the fruits and vegetables for Roger’s meals, to be stored in stasis until Finn got them out at the proper time.

“And what about the cats?” John went on to Sherlock. “You’re the one who was horrified when I suggested getting a pet cat, because secretly they’re powerful beings who control the galaxy.”

“It saddens me how little you listen to me, John,” Sherlock replied, and the irony was too rich for John _not_ to laugh. “The cats don’t _control_ the galaxy. They’re merely widespread within it. Well-traveled and adaptable to local conditions. Here they rule, there they adopt the guise of domesticated companion animals, somewhere else they are considered gods, in yet another place they’ve become vicious space-faring mercenaries.”

John started chuckling. “Captain Fluffybeard, terror of the high seas?” he imagined.

Per usual Sherlock was very serious. “It’s not funny, John,” he insisted. “Fortunately our path doesn’t take us through that sector, but if it did—“

John was too tickled by the idea, though. “If we encountered the fearsome kitty space pirates,” he decided—Roger’s giggling in imitation of him wasn’t helping—“I expect we’ll just project a laser on a moon, and they’ll run off to chase the red dot. Or,” he chortled, “maybe we’ll bomb them with some catnip and put them all into a drugged stupor!”

Sherlock sighed heavily, as if there was no hope for John, and walked up to take his chopping knife away. “Stop, you’ll cut yourself laughing,” he predicted, continuing the slicing of a potato.

“Not too much potato any one day,” John directed. “It gives him gas.”

“Gas,” Roger confirmed. “Spinach!” John handed him a leaf.

“Anyway, what’s he doing in here?” Sherlock wanted to know, as John enjoyed the novelty of watching Sherlock perform a domestic chore. “Why isn’t he with Finn?”

“Ah,” John replied, as if this was an important observation. “Finn is doing his schoolwork right now.”

“Roger loves Finn. Finn loves Roger.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, John, I don’t know how you can equate that kind of inane mimicry with sentience,” he complained, slicing a cucumber.

“He’s trying to say that he misses Finn, and wishes he could be with him,” John translated. “But _your son_ taught his sloth to do his homework, so he could play instead. I did tell you this.”

Sherlock remembered something about that. “Taught his sloth to do his homework,” he repeated with satisfaction. “That’s very clever.”

Now John rolled his eyes. “Yes, and the sloth was getting quite a lot of the answers right, by the way,” he couldn’t help pointing out.

“Seven plus five equals twelve,” Roger recited. “Squash!”

Sherlock gave him a slice of squash. “Memorizing rudimentary arithmetic rules does not indicate sentience,” he maintained. “They have horses that do that.”

“Oh, Roger, how are we going to convince him?” John asked the sloth in mock defeat.

“Convince him?” Roger repeated, as if that was the last thing he wanted. “Eggplant.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock agreed, handing over a lopsided chunk of eggplant. Roger shook it at him as if in complaint at the asymmetry, but ate it anyway. “Roger would rather be pampered here than have to struggle in his own society in Sloth-Land.”

“There _is_ no Sloth-Land anymore,” John pointed out casually. It didn’t seem to bother Roger overmuch. “Just captive breeding colonies for the pet trade.”

“Well, perhaps one day they will rise up against their captors,” Sherlock suggested dryly. “Invent the wheel and the Internet and so forth.”

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round…” Roger began to sing, per a children’s song that had been playing earlier.

“Maybe they’ll keep humans as servants, to bathe and feed them,” Sherlock added, giving Roger an orange slice he’d pointed at while singing.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” John agreed.

**

John found George in the library, digging through the books on myths from sub-Saharan Africa. “Hello, George,” he greeted, searching for texts of Greek mythology for the computer to scan.

“Hello, George,” Roger echoed from John’s shoulder.

This finally made George look up from his labors. “Have you gotten a second head?” he asked curiously. His tone suggested this was indeed a possible cosmetic procedure.

John had become rather used to Roger being perched on his shoulder while Finn and the others did schoolwork. “Oh, this is Roger,” he introduced. “Sherlock got him for Finn.”

George stood and stretched, taking a nip from his flask as he eyed the sloth. “Ugly little thing, isn’t he?”

Roger immediately mimicked George drinking from the flask and slurred, “Ugly thing, isn’t he?”

John didn’t know whether to chide George, or chide Roger, but the other man burst out laughing, and then so did Roger. “Oh, he’s an imitative sloth,” George realized. “I’d love to get one, but Susanna…” He gave John a look which suggested the woman would not agree.

“Yes, he’s very intelligent,” John told him, “though perhaps a bit cheeky at times.”

“Sorry I called you ugly, mate,” George said to Roger, doing a little dance to watch Roger repeat it on John’s shoulder.

“Ugly, mate!” the sloth added cheerfully.

“Oh, the kids would _adore_ one of these,” George asserted longingly. “Actually, when I was younger, I had an echoing kangaroo, and it used to—“

The tap-tap-tap of heels on the hard floors silenced him. “George! Did you find those books yet?” Susanna asked, marching into the library. “I want to get them scanned and crosslinked soon. Hello, John,” she added perfunctorily.

“Hello, Susanna—“

“Are you sure you’re looking in the right section?” she prodded George. “There’s supposed to be—Good Lord, what is _that_?” she asked with disapproval, catching sight of Roger.

“What is _that_?” he shot back in a snooty tone, and Susanna narrowed her eyes as George tried to contain his snickers.

“He’s an imitative sloth,” John tried to explain. “They’re meant to do that, imitate you.”

“And what is the purpose of _that_?” Susanna asked. Clearly she could imagine none.

Roger lifted his nose in the air and wiggled his rear end. “Purpose of _that_?” he demanded.

“Hush,” John told him, which never worked. “He’s Finn’s pet.”

“He seems rather vulgar,” Susanna pronounced, turning away definitively.

“Vulgar!” Roger repeated in a singsong tone, flouncing off John’s shoulder and behind his back.

George couldn’t help it any longer and burst out laughing. Susanna gave him a look. “Sorry, darling,” he claimed. “Quite amusing, really. Don’t you think the children—“ His question died with her glare. “Um, hmm. These books?”

John shook his head and picked up the books he wanted, making sure Roger was still attached to him as he left the library. “Vulgar!” Roger said again to him, aghast.

“I know, some people just don’t appreciate your sense of humor,” John agreed dryly.


	4. Enter Bethany

John carefully attached the collar around Roger’s neck. “All domestic companion creatures must be kept on a leash,” he said, for at least the third time. Roger had not yet repeated it back, giving off a sullen vibe instead. “Planetary rules. Or you can stay here.”

“Oh, don’t you want to come with us, Roger?” Finn coaxed. “It’ll be an _adventure_!” Roger acquiesced by hopping onto Finn’s back but refused to mimic his words or gestures. Last time had been Lily’s turn to visit the alien market with them; Arthur was currently hiding somewhere with his puppy, lest he be _pulled_ into an unwanted adventure, so it had defaulted back to Finn.

“Okay!” John announced with forced brightness. “Let me just check the weather conditions… Looks a bit cool, why don’t you grab your jacket and scarf?”

“Go get them for me, Roger!” Finn encouraged, and the sloth hopped down but moved even more slowly than usual toward Finn’s room, making sure everyone saw the leash dragging behind him.

“Honestly, you could stay here!” John called after him, trying not to feel guilty.

Everything else was ready by the time he returned. “Domestic companion creatures must be kept on a leash,” Roger repeated to Finn, looping the scarf around the boy’s neck.

Finn laughed. “Silly sloth!”

“Are we going now?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“Yes, we’re ready,” John assured him, taking Finn’s hand. “Bye-bye, Lily!”

“Bye!” she called as they left the playroom, and Lydia waved a leaf dismissively. Lydia did not care for adventures either.

Out in the silent, neutral-colored hallway Sherlock ordered up a door to the shuttle bay, leading them into the cavernous hanger where their vehicle waited. John was currently learning how to pilot a shuttle, though frankly there was a reason he hadn’t joined the RAF. Sherlock knew, or claimed to know, how to fly one, but really he let the computer do all the work. John felt it was a little complacent to rely on that entirely—he’d seen way too many episodes of _Star Trek_ where things went horribly wrong with the computers.

Fortunately that did not happen this time and the shuttle dropped them off predictably at the entrance to the market, then went to park itself. Handy, that. This was not John’s first market on another planet; although he’d gotten over the general culture shock, he still had the wonder and amazement at seeing so many beings from other planets, all hawking wares of equal intrigue. Occasionally he would even see something that reminded him, somehow, of Earth; but that thought tended to make him sad, so he pushed it aside and continued to point out things to Finn.

They were shopping more for interest than necessity—it turned out that Sherlock and his kind were rather special, even among aliens, being more acquisitive of knowledge and culture with seemingly plentiful amounts of food and other basic supplies. If they bought anything it was more like rare manuscripts, video compilations, artwork, craft items. Alien anthropologists, ready to study _all_ cultures, it seemed. Though, John had dated an anthropologist once and gone to some parties with her colleagues, and frankly they’d seemed a little more sensitive in their outlook than Sherlock and Mycroft. Well, if it was a profession forced upon you by tradition (as Sherlock had once implied) John supposed you had to find a way to make it fit you.

They were circling back around with the entrance in mind now; Finn was tired of all the walking and Sherlock carried him, while John carried the bag of purchases and Roger perched on his shoulder. Other members of the Holmes family were allegedly wandering the market, too, but John hadn’t seen any.

Suddenly John felt Roger tense on his shoulder and uncurl his arm from John’s neck, which usually meant he was about to jump down. “Roger,” John warned, holding on to the end of his leash. “This is not a place to go wandering—“

Roger started to squeak and click, and pointed in a certain direction while stamping his feet on John’s shoulder. “What is it?” John asked him, mystified. “You _can_ speak—“

“What’s wrong with him?” Sherlock demanded, slightly irritated. “I _told_ you he shouldn’t have eaten that weird fruit, if indeed it _was_ a fruit, which I doubt—“

Roger scrambled down John’s arm and hopped to the ground, heading off through the market. “Roger!” John still had a hold of the leash and Roger was not strong enough to topple him, but John didn’t want to strangle the creature. “Roger, come back here! What’s wrong with you?” Reluctantly John started to follow where the sloth clearly wanted to go.

“John!” Sherlock complained.

“Roger, don’t run away!” Finn called in distress, squirming down from Sherlock’s arms.

“Finn!”

“Alright, alright, we’re going there, no need to get upset,” John told Roger (and Finn).

“Are you hungry, Roger?” Finn asked, trying to pick him up. “Are you scared by the noise?”

Roger did not seem hungry _or_ scared as he scooted away from Finn, just very determined, and as the group rounded a corner John finally saw what had drawn him. Sherlock immediately pulled out his camera phone and began recording it, because evidently even well-traveled alien anthropologists didn’t see this every day—a collection of two dozen imitative sloths in cages, singing and dancing in synch to mimic a little girl who was standing in front of them. It was kind of like one of those giant walls of televisions at a store, all playing the same thing. Except live, and furry.

Finn laughed heartily; on the surface it _was_ kind of adorable. But Roger was just sitting there on the ground, staring, and John felt rather uncomfortable with the whole thing suddenly. Leashes, cages, being sold, singing and dancing for the entertainment of their ‘betters’… “Roger?” he said quietly. “Are you alright? Come on, let’s go home now.” Silently Roger climbed back up on his shoulder.

“Look at that one, Daddy!” Finn was exclaiming to Sherlock. There was one cage in the middle where the sloth was _not_ dancing—it was just lying there, with its back to the crowd.

“Well that’s novel,” Sherlock commented. “An imitative sloth that won’t imitate.”

Roger squeaked and clicked, and the unenthusiastic sloth peered over its shoulder at them, then resolutely turned away. It reminded John very much of a child refusing to come out and play, perhaps because all the other children had been mean to it.

“Sherlock,” he began impulsively, trying not to attract Finn’s attention, “do you think we could get that sloth?”

Sherlock looked at him, then back at his video, then back at John. “What, _that_ one? The sick one?”

“Do you think it’s sick?” John worried. They had all the other creatures and children to think about, that was true. “Do you think that one is sick, Roger?”

“Roger loves Finn, Finn loves Roger,” the sloth responded plaintively.

“Yes, maybe that one just never had anyone to love it,” John agreed soberly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think you’re over-interpreting a bit, John?” he suggested.

“Well, I could take care of it,” John countered. “They wouldn’t have it with the others if it was contagious,” he reasoned. “Are they expensive?”

Sherlock finally seemed to realize he was serious. “Well, it’s fine,” he responded, watching John curiously. “Look, we can get it if you want, but you can’t go around scooping up every sad animal you see, John,” he warned. “Not even _our_ ship could hold them all.” Which was more a comment on the poor state of the galaxy, than on the storage capacity of their ship.

“I’d like to have that one, if it’s alright,” John persisted. He could feel Roger perched alertly on his shoulder. “And if that would be alright with you, Roger,” he added.

“Alright with Roger,” the sloth replied promptly.

“Daddy, are you watching me?” Finn demanded. “Are you filming me?” The little girl had gone away and Finn was the one the sloths were imitating.

“Come here, don’t tire them out,” John requested. “Come hold Roger. Daddy’s going to buy another sloth for us!” he added brightly, settling Roger on Finn’s back.

Predictably Finn was very excited about this. “Whoo-hoo! Can we get the ginger one? Or the fat silver one? He’s funny!”

“Er, no,” John denied, preoccupied watching Sherlock deal with the sloth salesman. “This one will be for me, and I want the chocolate brown one in the middle.”

Finn looked back with a frown. “But that one’s _boring_ ,” he judged. “It won’t even dance!”

“Well, that’s why _I’ll_ look after it,” John claimed, trying to sound sensible. That often convinced children, and occasionally Sherlock. “Now, don’t pout,” he added, as Finn started to. “You’ve got Roger, and he’s fun, isn’t he? He already knows lots of fun things to do.”

“ _It’s_ a small world _after_ all, _it’s_ a small world _after_ all,” Roger started to sing by way of example. Some of the sloths for sale picked up the song and began to repeat it in a creepy echo. Fortunately this was all very amusing for Finn.

The sloth salesman had to unstack some of the cages to get the one Sherlock indicated, and as its cage was picked up the chocolate brown sloth curled up in an even tighter ball, as if determined to ignore them all.

“Roger,” John said, interrupting the song, “can you tell the new sloth that everything is going to be okay? How do sloths learn to speak English?” he wondered suddenly.

“The same way everyone else learns, John,” Sherlock informed him shortly (whatever way that was). “Here, take this.” He presented the cage to John in exchange for the bag of other purchases, not wanting to touch anything associated with the animal for longer than necessary.

John held the cage up by the handle and looked at the lump of fur inside worriedly. “Roger, did you tell it it’s okay now?” he asked again, as they resumed their journey to the exit. Dutifully Roger clicked and squeaked, but there was no response. “No, don’t touch it,” John warned, when Roger reached out a long arm towards the newcomer. “In case it _is_ sick. I’ll take it to the clinic when we get back on board.”

“Her,” Roger informed him. “She, girl, female—“

“Oh, it’s a female sloth,” John realized. “Well, don’t get any ideas,” he informed Roger sternly.

“What sort of ideas?” Finn asked, swinging along on the end of Sherlock’s arm.

“Roger knows what I’m talking about,” John assured him. Roger looked slightly affronted at his insinuation. “We don’t need any baby sloths running around.”

“Oh, baby sloths!” Finn repeated excitedly. “What are baby sloths called, Daddy?”

Sherlock had no idea. “Um… egrets,” he claimed, and John shot him a look. “Well, check your guidebook when we get home, I’m sure it says. Kittens? Joeys? Sprouts?” Now Finn was laughing at him as they waited for the shuttle to arrive. “Pods? Artichokes? Dollops?” Sherlock kept muttering, as if determined to shake it out of his mind. “It’s something like that.”

“A sloth dollop,” John repeated dryly. “Well that sounds horrible. Like what happens when Roger has too much cheese.” Roger started singing ‘It’s a Small World’ again, as if to drown John out. “See how much fun we have here?” John said to the chocolate brown sloth in the cage. “You’re going to a good home.” It—pardon, _she_ —raised her head slightly and blinked at him, then rolled over, as if to make sure he knew he was being ignored.

Could be a tough case.

The shuttle arrived and John made sure Finn and Roger were strapped in, then secured the new sloth’s cage on the floor. “I’ll have to think of a name for her,” John mused as they took off. “Do sloths have name preferences, Roger?”

“Roger!” he answered, which John took as a no.

“You are very funny about animals, John,” Sherlock judged. This didn’t seem to be negative, merely curious.

“I know. Thank you for buying her for me,” he added, realizing he hadn’t said that. “I’ll keep her bed in my room. I expect she’ll want to play with Roger and the other pets when she feels better,” he hedged. “I don’t think she’ll bother you.”

Sherlock looked like his mind hadn’t even gone in that direction. “Oh, well, Roger seems civilized enough,” he declared unexpectedly. “He was helping me to organize my slides the other day, while you were in that meeting. He’s very dexterous.”

“Dexterous, dexterous!” Roger repeated. “ _Arthrospira platensis_.”

“And what category does that go in?” Sherlock quizzed.

“Cyanobacteria,” Roger answered promptly, which seemed to be the correct answer.

“Very clever,” Sherlock judged, then refocused on the flight path when he saw John’s little smile. John decided not to tease him, since he had after all gotten John a new sloth, who didn’t even imitate.

They landed safely in the shuttle bay again—something that always gave John a small feeling of relief—and John took the new sloth in her cage to the clinic, while the others returned to their rooms. Roger perched on Finn and looked backwards at his compatriot in concern, but she refused to acknowledge his attempts to communicate.

Once in the clinic John set the cage on an exam table. “What have we got here, Baker?” he asked the computer, shedding his jacket and scarf.

“Imitative sloth, female,” Baker replied crisply. A blue light passed back and forth over the creature. “Not much of a challenge.”

John rolled his eyes at the computer’s tone. “Nothing contagious?” he checked.

“No,” the computer confirmed. “Slight malnourishment and dehydration. I think she’s depressed,” Baker went on, displaying a graph of brain chemical abundance for John.

“Depressed?” he repeated in concern. He knelt down so he could peer into the cage. “Why?”

“Perhaps because she’s a sentient being enslaved by species with better mechanical engineering skills,” Baker opined. The computer, who sounded rather like Judi Dench to John, had a distinct personality that bordered on _abrupt_. John tried not to take it personally.

“Oh, do you think imitative sloths are sentient, too?” he checked, with some excitement. It was always good to have the computer on your side.

“That’s the consensus from the latest scientific literature,” Baker sniffed. “Obviously no social policy changes have come of it yet.”

Obviously. “Can you send me some of those articles?” John requested. “You think it’s safe to open her cage? Not going to go psychotic or anything?”

“Probably not.”

This was not very reassuring to John, but he reached for the cage door anyway. Then he froze. “Oh, contraception,” he remembered. “Can you do anything for that? Temporarily.”

A pink glow suffused the sloth for a moment. “There, that should keep for three months,” Baker declared. “I’ll catch Roger soon and give him the same treatment. You’re not planning to breed them?”

John grimaced. “Uh, no. I mean, well, if they _wanted_ to—later…” He tried to shake those thoughts out of his brain as _very_ premature. “Okay, little lady, why don’t you come out now?” he suggested brightly, opening the cage door. The sloth looked over to see what he’d done, then turned her back again. John tried to remember she was depressed, and possibly nervous.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “This is a safe place. Do you have a name?” Nothing. “I would like to call you something,” John persuaded. “If you don’t have a preference I’ll pick a name myself. No? No ideas?” He waited, thinking at the same time. “Well, how about… Bethany?” This did not merit any response. “Bethany the sloth. I had a girlfriend named Bethany,” he murmured, not that anyone listening seemed to care. “You kind of remind me of her. Same sulky way of ignoring me,” he added dryly. “Also, she _was_ a bit hairy. Any ideas, Baker?” John finally asked the computer helplessly.

“Try luring her out with food,” Baker suggested, creating a plate of chopped fruits and vegetables for him.

“Ah, of course.” John picked up a cucumber slice. “Bethany, are you hungry?” he asked. “I’ve got some tasty food here. Come on, you must be a bit hungry.” John took a bite of the cucumber slice. “Mmm, this is rather good,” he claimed, chewing noisily. “I would share with you if you wanted.” Somehow, he got the sense that Bethany was listening to him, but stubbornly refusing to respond.

“Well, you can have this,” John said, and he poked the cucumber slice into her cage, on the side she was facing. Then he sat back and waited.

For a long moment nothing happened, and he was about to give up and just leave her completely alone for a while. Then, slowly, her pointy fingers reached out and grasped the cucumber slice. She pulled it back in and sniffed at it, licked it, took a nibble, then a bigger bite. After a minute she had consumed the whole thing.

“That was a _cucumber slice_ ,” John informed her. “Would you like an _apple slice_ next?” He waited a moment, then poked it into her cage again. She ate it a little faster this time. “Here’s a _carrot slice_ ,” John went on patiently. “I’ve put it behind you.” He was hoping she would roll over to get it, but with her long, flexible arm Bethany was able to reach around her back and grab the orange disc.

“Here’s a _strawberry_ ,” John continued. He put this a little bit outside of her cage. “Roger loves strawberries.”

Bethany groped for the food, couldn’t find it, and finally turned around. “There you are,” John encouraged. “You’re so pretty, Bethany. Don’t you want to—“ She grabbed the strawberry and turned her back on him again.

John sighed. Sherlock would’ve given up long before now, he thought. Please, Sherlock wouldn’t even have _started_. John mustered his determination and put a grape farther outside her cage, so that she had to poke her head out to reach it. Then he put a spinach leaf a little farther away, and a squash slice farther yet, until Bethany had crawled all the way out of the cage and stayed there, looking at the plate of food he kept behind him.

“Would you like some more?” John asked, offering her another piece of cucumber. He didn’t set it down, though. “Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.” Hesitantly Bethany reached out and took the food from him. “Good girl!” John praised. “Here, would you like another grape?” He held it flat in his palm, a little closer to him. After a moment Bethany scooted over and took it.

“Can I pet you?” John asked, giving her another apple slice. “You’re so soft. I do think you need a bath, though,” he grimaced, as something greasy transferred from her fur to his fingers. “Would you like to sit on my shoulder? There you go, that’s nice.” John let her get acclimated to her perch. “Shall we go say hello to everyone else? I’m going to stand up now.”

Bethany seemed okay with being raised up and transported, hooking her arm around his neck like Roger did. She squeaked and stamped her feet on his shoulder as he started to walk away, though, and John saw that she was pointing to the plate of food he’d left behind. “Shall I bring the food with us, Bethany?” he asked. “Are you still hungry?” Her only response was to accept a piece of spinach he offered.

John hoped she didn’t find him too patronizing; he wanted to get her used to the sound of his voice and the name he’d given her, and soothing yet upbeat tones had always worked well with his young patients on Earth. Bethany was decidedly non-verbal at the moment—by choice, John assumed—so rationally she could hardly blame him for aiming a little young. Though he suspected Bethany was not entirely rational.

They went down the silent, neutral-colored hallway. “There’s my room, Bethany,” John informed her, pointing to his door. “That’s where I’m going to keep your bed. There’s Sherlock’s room, better stay out of there unless invited,” he advised. “Sometimes he has delicate experiments running that shouldn’t be disturbed.” Bethany crunched loudly on an apple slice by his ear, with a certain amount of disdain for his warning, John felt. Well, let Sherlock catch her in there and she’d wish she’d listened.

“Here’s the playroom and the children’s rooms,” he went on, stopping at the door. “See, it has their names on it: Lily, and Finn, and Arthur.” Roger could apparently read, at least some, part of which Finn had taught him and part of which he’d acquired on his own. “You’ve met Finn before, he was the little boy with us at the market.” Crunch, crunch. “Okay then.”

John opened the playroom door cautiously, as sometimes the atmosphere there was rather chaotic. All seemed quiet at the moment, though. “This is where the children play with their toys and their pets,” John continued. “You can come in here and play with them, too.”

Arthur was sitting at the little table drawing a picture of his puppy, who posed obediently; but when he saw Bethany he dove underneath the table and the puppy started yapping—predictably, John thought. Bethany froze mid-chew on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Bethany, no one’s going to hurt you,” John promised, rubbing her back. “Puppy,” he added sternly, and the little dog finally quieted. “That’s Arthur under the table,” he explained to Bethany. “He’s a bit nervous around strangers but I think he’ll warm up to you if you’re patient.” Bethany nonchalantly resumed eating.

“Arthur, this is my new sloth, Bethany,” John introduced. His ‘soothing’ voice was getting a lot of use today. “Can you come out and say hello?” Arthur would not. John crouched down by the table. “Bethany’s new and she doesn’t know anyone yet,” he went on to Arthur. “Do you think you could be her friend?”

Arthur gave this considerable thought, as only a four-year-old could. Then he crawled out from under the table and observed Bethany for a long moment, and finally offered her his hand. “Bethany,” John prompted, “Arthur wants to be your friend.” He sensed Bethany was not having any of this ‘friend’ business. Instead she held out her half-eaten piece of spinach and gave/dropped/threw it at Arthur, perhaps as some kind of bribe to go away. It was just undexterous enough that John couldn’t accuse her of throwing the food, really, and Arthur dropped it anyway.

“Let’s not be messy with our food, Bethany,” John warned her. “If you’re messy I’ll assume you’re done eating and put the plate away.” This, John noted, seemed to be understood perfectly well, as she immediately pointed at the plate to request more food. “Arthur, you can throw that away,” he told the boy of the spinach leaf, which was being destroyed in a tug of war with his puppy. “That’s not good for Puppy to eat. Yes, Bethany, I know you would like something else to eat,” John acknowledged patiently, as she squeaked, stamped her feet on his shoulder, and pointed vigorously. “Let’s greet the others. Here’s a banana for you. Don’t get any on me, please.”

Lily, Finn, Lydia, and Roger were off to the side, and John sat down quietly on an ottoman to watch them, setting the plate down so Roger could snack as well. Lily and Finn were engaged in building some kind of contraption for Lydia, which would allow the walking daisy to administer her own nutrients and water, and control how much light she was receiving from a sunshine bulb. Initial tests with a Lydia stand-in made from Tinkertoys ended with wooden sticks and connectors all over the floor when the model pitched off the platform, however. Lydia looked very dubious, for a daisy.

“That’s Lily, and her flower Lydia,” John introduced to Bethany. “We do not bother Lydia,” he added sternly. The children might be traumatized for life if Bethany ripped Lydia’s head off and ate her, thinking she was a treat. “And that’s Finn, and there’s Roger. You know Roger.”

Roger, who was not very useful at engineering tasks, joined John and Bethany instead. The two sloths squeaked and clicked at each other in what John hoped was a friendly greeting.

Roger hopped up on his knee, then his other shoulder, and John felt something poke at his head. Roger brought down a stringy bit from the banana. “Rude,” he told Bethany, dropping it on John’s lap.

John was getting just a little exasperated now. “Bethany, did you get banana on me when I told you not to? Well, I guess you’re not hungry anymore.” Bethany squeaked in protest. “No, I warned you about being messy. Roger, take the plate to the stasis chamber, would you? Thank you.” Shaking his head as if in disgust at Bethany, Roger waddled away with the food.

Bethany sulked after that. John could _feel_ her sulking, perched on his shoulder. He wondered now if Sherlock had found Roger just by luck, or if he’d done some research to get a sloth with a pleasant disposition. Apparently it wasn’t a given.

“Look, this is the new sloth Papa got,” Finn told his sister as they took a break from their labors. “What did you name her, Papa?”

“Her name is Bethany,” John replied cheerfully. “Can you come down here, Bethany?” He patted his knee. Instead, she dropped down behind his back, hanging on to his shoulders. “Well, she’s still getting used to things,” he told the children.

“She was the only sloth at the market who wouldn’t sing and dance!” Finn remembered. He started to do a hopping, wiggling sort of dance, which Roger promptly imitated. Bethany peeked around John’s arm to watch.

“Oh, she’s so pretty,” Lily admired. “I wonder if she’s meant to be a show sloth.”

“Show?” John repeated blankly. “People show sloths? Like dogs and horses?” He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised—sentient hominids had a universal compulsion to turn everything into a competition, it seemed.

“Can I pet her?” Lily asked, reaching out a hand slowly.

“I don’t know, see if she’ll let you,” John cautioned. Bethany allowed it for about two seconds, then ducked back behind John. “Er, you may want to wash your hands,” he added, as Lily rubbed her fingers together with a frown. He was not looking forward to bathing Bethany.

She climbed onto John’s other knee of her own volition suddenly, and clicked at Roger, who was watching as Finn got back to work. He clicked back, and then the two of them knuckle-walked away. John leaned over to see them going through the ‘out’ door. He sighed, a bit dramatically, and stretched out on the playroom floor, rather tired from dealing with Bethany. He reminded himself, again, that she must’ve had a hard life earlier, and he couldn’t expect her to come around immediately.

There was a playful growl nearby, then Arthur pounced on him, and John hugged him close while wrestling lightly, making sure he didn’t bother Lily and Finn’s activity. Arthur just didn’t have the brilliance of his older siblings; that was what you got when you made a clone of John and didn’t mix in anything from Sherlock at all. But Arthur would find his niche, John was certain—he hadn’t done too badly himself, after all.

“Come here, Puppy,” Finn demanded, placing Arthur’s pet on the platform he was building. “Sit. Stay.” Arthur watched with a frown.

“Don’t feed Puppy any plant nutrients, they aren’t good for him,” John reminded the children.

“We know, Papa,” Lily promised. “It’s just water right now.”

“Okay, so if Puppy pushes _that_ button…” Finn prompted, and the slightly psychic dog did so. The platform jerked suddenly and dumped him on the floor.

Arthur squawked angrily and stomped over to retrieve his pet. “Well, he wasn’t standing right!” Finn complained.

“I think the mechanism is still too fast,” Lily observed, scribbling something on her tablet.

“Is Puppy okay?” John checked with Arthur. The tiny dog seemed none the worse for wear and licked Arthur’s face happily. Nonetheless Arthur marched over to the table again, to play with his pet more safely.

Roger and Bethany came back into the playroom and she automatically hopped back up onto John’s shoulder. “Hello, Bethany,” he greeted, rubbing her back. Finn and Lily’s platform whirred and jerked, spilling their latest Lydia model to the floor, and Bethany squeaked. “Yes, perhaps we should let the young engineers be,” John agreed, and he stood and walked over to the little table. “Can we color with you, Arthur?” he asked, sitting down in the too-small chair. The boy smiled at him, warm and sweet. “Thank you. What are you drawing?” He was still working on his picture of Puppy, majestically posed on a staircase of alphabet blocks. “Very nice,” John praised.

Roger hopped up onto the table and Arthur—who had largely accepted the sloth, finally—let him have a piece of paper and a green crayon. Roger did not really draw things, but he liked to make waves and spirals on the paper.

“Bethany, would you like to try coloring?” John offered. Arthur picked out a red crayon and held it to her; after a long moment she took it. “See, you put the crayon on the paper,” John explained, demonstrating with a purple crayon, “and it makes a pretty mark. You can draw things with it.” He outlined a square, then divided it into four quarters, and started filling in one of the quarters with orange. “Do you want to come down here and try, Bethany?”

She thought about it. Then she decided to nibble on the crayon instead. It was non-toxic; and she quickly discovered for herself that it didn’t taste good. “No, that’s not for eating is it?” John noted. She squeaked and stamped her feet, and dropped the crayon on the table. “Well, it’s no good complaining, I didn’t say you ought to eat it,” he pointed out. This did not put her in a better frame of mind.

“Rude,” Roger judged, and Bethany clicked at him.

“Maybe Bethany is not interested in art,” John suggested dryly.

There was a thunk from the other side of the room, and the entire spinning platform Lily and Finn had been working on toppled over, spilling water everywhere. There may even have been some smoke. Lydia yanked her roots out of her vase and scampered off to the safety of her pot in Lily’s bedroom.

“Stupid actuator coils!” Finn blamed in frustration, starting to kick something.

“Don’t break it!” Lily warned. “It’s your own fault anyway, you wound the gears too tight!”

John decided to intervene. “Hey, let’s take a break from that, alright?” he said, joining them to survey the mess. “Lily, can you clean up that water, please?”

An indignant expression crossed her face and Finn stuck his tongue out at her in triumph. John tsked him. “Come along, I’ve got another job for you,” he told the boy, walking him back to the table. “When is Roger supposed to have his next bath?”

“Friday,” Finn answered.

“I think that’s too long to wait,” John decided. “I would like you to give Roger his bath now, and Bethany can watch, and then maybe she won’t be so nervous about taking one herself.” Bethany looked up from where she had stayed on the table, tasting all the crayons to see if any were good. Her expression was suspicious. “Is that okay with you, Roger?” John checked. “Can you help show Bethany that baths aren’t scary?”

“Scary,” Roger repeated unhelpfully, drawing a big blue scribble on his paper.

John rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Roger,” he said. “You like your bath now. Set a good example for Bethany. Like you have been.”

“Have been,” Roger echoed thoughtfully.

Finn was not overly thrilled with this assignment. “Come on, Roger,” he sighed, picking the sloth up from the table. “You have to have your bath early this week.”

“Let’s go, Bethany,” John encouraged, holding out his hand. After a pause to consider, she scampered up his arm to his shoulder. “Alright, sloth bath day,” he enthused, only a little forced.


	5. Sloth Bath Day, Part 2

In the bathroom John sat on the lid of the toilet and watched as Finn put an inch of warm water in the basin, then Roger’s favorite bath toys. He could do most of the procedure on his own now, especially since Roger had gotten used to it and didn’t fuss so much. John always hung around just in case there were problems.

“You see how Roger is sitting in the water, Bethany?” John narrated. “It’s nice and warm, and he has toys to play with. If you get in the water, you can play with the toys, too.” This had been one of Roger’s chief incentives, anyway. “Hand me one of the toy boats, please, Finn,” he went on, and then showed the small plastic toy to Bethany. “Look, isn’t that fun?” She took the toy boat in her pointy fingers and turned it over and over, then tried to chew on it. “No, Bethany, it’s not food,” John corrected in exasperation, taking it away. Surely she had gotten plenty of food to sustain herself earlier.

“Okay, Roger, I’m going to wipe you off now,” Finn announced. “Close your eyes.”

“Roger will be nice and clean when he’s done with his bath,” John emphasized to Bethany. “Do you want to get closer and see what’s going on?” Bethany did not. John sighed and got closer himself, sitting on the floor by the tub. He encouraged Bethany to sit on the edge of the tub and peer in to see what was going on.

“Did you get his legs and feet?” John checked. One of Roger’s little flat duck feet, alarmingly detached from his body or so it appeared from this angle, waggled in the air above the basin.

“Now I’m going to rinse you,” Finn explained. He turned the handheld showerhead on, but it slipped in his wet hands and accidentally sprayed Bethany and John for a moment. This was a typical bath mishap for John; but Bethany screeched like she’d been doused with acid and made a run for it.

“Door,” John called, and the bathroom door shut before she could get to it. Bethany continued to check all corners of the room for an escape route, agilely hopping away whenever John came near. He let her try. She wouldn’t get out. “Bethany, you just got a tiny bit wet,” he tried to tell her. “That’s the point of the bath—“ She was having none of it and kept trying to yank open the medicine cabinet or the linen closet, both of which remained steadfastly closed.

Finn was unimpressed. “She’s very high-strung,” he noted, going back to his sloth-bathing duties. Roger also ignored her, engrossed in pouring water into buckets on a balance to make them swing back and forth.

“When did you last shampoo Roger?” John asked, kneeling by the tub.

“Two weeks ago.”

“Well, let’s do it again,” John decided. “Bethany definitely needs a good shampooing. Roger, you’re being so good today,” he praised. “You can have a treat later.”

“Stinky cheese?” Roger asked hopefully. That was his favorite.

“Maybe Swiss,” John downgraded. “Next time we’ll have the stinky cheese _before_ your bath.” Just in case he ate too much and there were any, er, sloth dollops to take care of.

“Bethany,” John called casually. He saw that she was hiding behind the toilet but didn’t stare. “Roger’s being shampooed now, do you want to come and watch?”

Finn did most of the shampooing himself now; John just did Roger’s head, because sometimes he got busy playing and didn’t want to cover his eyes for rinsing, and Finn didn’t want to get soap in his eyes. John felt he was in a better position to be stern about it, or to tell the sloth he’d gotten what he deserved if his eyes stung (for seconds only, using the mildest shampoo available). John hoped that this time he would be a little more conscious of his audience and cooperate.

After a couple minutes John saw Bethany peeking over the edge of the tub. Then she climbed up on the edge and perched precariously on a soap dish so she could see what was happening in the basin, and why Roger was getting all sudsy. John opened the plug in the basin so the soapy water could drain out as Finn rinsed his pet, then he shampooed Roger’s head.

“Time to rinse,” John announced. “Lean back and cover your eyes.” Roger did so without protest. “Good, Roger! You’re going to be so clean. Are you ready to be dried off now?”

Finn held out a big towel and John lifted Roger out of the basin so he could be wrapped up. Once he was all wet and starting to get cold, he didn’t like to move on his own. “Now Finn’s going to dry Roger with the hair dryer,” John told Bethany. “Don’t be scared, it’s a bit loud.” Determinedly he didn’t look at her when Finn switched the hair dryer on. If she made any protest, the noise of the machine drowned it out. Soon Roger was soft and dry, a very satisfactory end to bath time.

Now the hard part began.

John turned to Bethany, who was standing in the tub, looking into the damp basin. “What do you think, Bethany? I think you can handle it.” John sounded much more confident about this than he actually felt. “Here, let me rinse the basin out and add some fresh water.” Bethany hurried to get far away from the water as he did this. “Okay, Bethany, come on,” John coaxed. “No more preparation, it’s time for your bath now.” He picked her up from the edge of the sink and brought her back to the basin.

Immediately she began to emit a series of distressed squeaks and clicks. “She must be really scared, Papa,” Finn worried.

“Well, she’s had enough time to get used to the idea,” he said firmly, as Bethany alternated between flailing her arms and going limp as a wet noodle. John glanced at Finn’s pained expression. “Why don’t you go clean out Roger’s nest?” he suggested to the boy. “Roger can stay here and help me with Bethany.”

“Okay.” Finn hurried out the door.

John narrowed his eyes at the sloth. “Fussing will get you nowhere, Bethany,” he informed her, and set her down in the water. She did not try to escape, at least, but just sat there miserably, keening while John washed her. “Oh, honestly, Bethany.” Roger shook a toy in front of her, the swirling water wheel, but Bethany just batted it away sullenly. “She’s smaller than you,” John observed to Roger as he scrubbed at her fur. “Do you think she’s a juvenile?”

“Juvenile,” Roger judged disdainfully.

“I meant developmentally,” John clarified. Roger just shrugged a little. “Okay, now some shampoo… You’re going to be so clean when we’re done, Bethany. You’re going to like that so much.” He was not very convincing, if her squeaky wails were anything to go by.

The washcloth came away _smudged_ , so John surreptitiously began shampooing her a second time, letting the water drain out from the basin so she wasn’t sitting in the residue. Roger tried singing to her, but stopped in a huff when she made what John presumed was a rude comment in sloth language.

“Okay, Bethany, can you stretch your legs out?” John prompted, ignoring her continued protests. “Your legs retract, but you need to extend them so that fur can get clean, too.” Perhaps the appeal to her rationality had little hope of succeeding, but he wasn’t sure how to get at her legs if she didn’t do it herself. He wiped at her little flat duck feet again. “Come on, Bethany, stretch out your legs—“

With a sharp, loud squeak, Bethany toppled backwards to lie down in the basin, flopping her arms and legs over the side and chittering pathetically, as if this life was just too much to bear for a mere sloth.

“Well, my goodness, Bethany—“ John began, not knowing what else to say. He looked over at Roger, who was staring at her in befuddlement as well. He turned to John and shook his head.

The bathroom door opened slightly. “Is Bethany still upset?” Finn called in.

“Yes,” John replied. Those sounds did not come from a happy sloth. “Why don’t you go play? I’ll finish up in here.” Finn disappeared rapidly. John faced Bethany with determination. “Let’s get this over with.”

Efficiently he scrubbed and rinsed her the rest of the way, making a nominal effort to keep the soap from her eyes, but honestly she didn’t seem interested in helping herself at all. Finally he decided she was clean enough and lifted her out of the basin onto the bath mat. Roger dropped a towel on top of her like he was trying to silence a canary. John patted her dry, then picked up the hair dryer, braced himself, and flicked the switch.

The hair dryer was, mercifully, okay, Bethany decided. At least, she didn’t run away from it, and she voluntarily turned and extended her legs so John could dry them. The hair dryer did have the effect of fluffing up her fur until she looked like a giant chocolate puff, though.

John switched it off when he thought she was done. The silence in the room was almost deafening, after the noise from the machine, the water, and Bethany. “Well,” he finally said, trying to be positive, “how do you feel now, Bethany?” He held out his arm and she crawled onto it readily, nestling against his shoulder in a way that was oddly endearing despite her earlier behavior. He figured she might just be exhausted by this point.

“Alright, Bethany, let’s go get your nest ready, and then you can rest,” he promised, standing. Roger hopped up on his other side for a ride out of the bathroom. “Roger, thank you for helping out,” John remembered to tell him.

“Swiss? Good example,” Roger reminded him eagerly.

John had not forgotten. “Yes, of course. Finn!” The boy looked up from where he and Lily were making a new three-dimensional diagram of their plant feeding station. “Can you get Roger some Swiss cheese, please? Just a little, too much will make him sick.”

“I remember,” Finn assured him quickly as he got up and took Roger. “You felt quite awful, didn’t you, Roger?”

“Didn’t!” Roger claimed, too enchanted by the lure of cheese.

John shook his head and carried Bethany out into the hall, then into his own room, and ordered up a cylindrical sloth bed for her. “See, you can make a cozy nest for yourself in there,” he told her, setting her on top of the column. She leaned over precariously to peer into the hollow interior.

John dug through his drawers and pulled out his black-and-white striped jumper—it was a favorite, but he didn’t wear it much anymore because 1) people joked that he looked either like a convict or a French mime in it; and 2) Sherlock had burned a hole in the middle of the back during an experiment. Might as well find a new use for it.

“Here you go, Bethany,” John said, handing it to her. “You can start your nest with this.” She turned it all around and sniffed at it. “Okay, I’m going back to the playroom for a while,” he informed her. “You can just stay here and relax. Let me know if you need anything.” Bethany stared after him with big brown eyes and he resisted the urge to call her to him. She would be fine on her own, he told himself firmly, and would probably welcome the solitude. He shut the door behind him and went back to play with the children.

Later that evening, after the children had gone to bed but before Sherlock had emerged from his laboratory, John was sitting on the couch, reading a novel. The words hung in mid-air, at whatever angle he found comfortable, which was nice; it also left his hands free—to do nothing in this case, but still.

From off to the side he heard a raspy shuffling sound and glanced over to see Bethany trundling into the room. She was wearing the black-and-white jumper, or trying to—it looked like she had extended her legs through the sleeves and then retracted them, bunching the fabric around her feet and impairing her mobility; the rest of it she was holding up with her hands. John didn’t want to discourage her by laughing.

“Hello, Bethany,” he said quietly, with a smile. “Did you have a nice nap?” She wobbled closer and John held out his arm. “Do you want to sit on the couch with me?” She clutched his arm and scrambled up awkwardly, settling on his lap where he could pet her fluffy fur. “Okay, I’m going to read my book,” he added, and she snuggled up against him, seemingly content.


	6. Bethany settles in

Morning could be a chaotic time in the Holmes-Watson household. John like mornings. Roger liked mornings. Lily seemed pretty calm about them, which John liked to think was due to the influence of his own DNA. Though Arthur usually had to be carried to the table crying at the injustice of it all, so there went _that_ theory. Puppy of course got upset when Arthur was upset. Lydia needed a good forty-five minutes under her sunlamp before she would even be civil to anyone. And Sherlock and Finn only liked mornings if they hadn’t been to bed the night before.

So John had a lot to manage at breakfast time. He had finally accepted that his genetically-engineered children needed to eat mainly sugar (after Baker had gone over some physiology with him) but somehow that didn’t make breakfast any easier. Finn wanted M&M’s and orange juice, or maybe a brownie, no, M&M’s, no, ice cream (“Not nutritious enough!” Sherlock told him, pushing the candy). Lily wouldn’t eat her chocolate cake if any fruit-flavored matter had touched it, like the raspberry syrup Finn ‘accidentally’ spilled on her plate. Arthur wanted Skittles, but he didn’t like the green ones and kept trying to feed them to his puppy, who was only supposed to eat bland nutrient pellets. Or to Roger, who didn’t like them but couldn’t seem to remember this until after he’d eaten one and spat it out in disgust. Didn’t need Bethany picking up _that_ habit.

Fortunately the little sloth seemed relatively docile this morning, clinging to John’s back as he whirled around the kitchen assembling everyone and their food. When he was finally able to sit down and enjoy his own breakfast she scrambled up to his shoulder to avoid being squished against the chair. “Oh, sorry, Bethany,” John told her. “I quite forgot you were there. Do you want a slice of banana?”

Bethany did not. Instead she pointed at the table. “What do you want?” John asked, trying to follow her gaze. “Sugar? A napkin? Milk?”

“John!” Sherlock complained grumpily. “Are you going to name every item on the table? Is that your version of conversation worth getting up for?”

Sherlock had _not_ been up all night, and therefore he loathed the morning. “Not sure you’d find _any_ conversation worth getting up for,” John muttered dryly. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, and Bethany squeaked and pointed. “What, you want coffee?” John interpreted. “No, you can’t have any coffee. That’s not sloth food. You can have a banana slice, though.” Bethany pointed vigorously to the coffee cup. “No,” John told her firmly, setting it aside. Bethany stamped her feet on his shoulder. “Bethany,” John warned. “I told you no.” He turned back to his breakfast and the table’s other occupants. “Lily, what are you going to—“

Bethany squeaked loudly and despairingly, and jumped down from John’s shoulder to lie on the floor, flailing her long arms and croaking like the world was ending. Actually John hadn’t even done that when the world _had_ ended. Everyone turned to stare at her.

“Bethany,” John said sternly. “Beth—Okay, Bethany is just having a little temper tantrum right now,” he told the children.

“Rude!” declared Roger. Bethany continued her squeaky wail.

“So let’s just ignore her until she calms down,” John continued, raising his voice slightly. “Lily, what are you doing in your science class today?”

Lily tried to tell him, something about quantum mechanics which John probably wouldn’t have understood even _without_ a distressed sloth squealing on the floor in the background.

“John, make her stop that noise,” Sherlock finally ordered. “It’s intolerable!”

“She will stop once she realizes no one is paying attention to her,” John tried to explain to him. “Just ignore her.”

“How can I _ignore_ her?” Sherlock demanded peevishly. “She is making a hideous racket!”

John had a sudden burst of inspiration, which was only slightly evil. “Children,” he said seriously, turning to them, “I think Daddy is saying he wants to hear the ‘Gurgle, Gurgle’ song.”

“Oh no—“

“Gurgle gurgle, snickle snackle!” began three voices immediately—Lily, Finn, and Roger—while Arthur clapped along and his puppy barked. Lydia, who had not gotten all her sunshine yet, unwound herself from Lily’s arm and plopped herself into a glass of water in protest.

“No, no—“ Sherlock complained, putting his head down on his arms. The children had learned the nonsense song a couple weeks ago and its utter pointlessness, along with a devilishly catchy tune that rapidly got stuck in his head, drove him crazy.

John smiled and nodded along, as if the song didn’t make _him_ feel slightly hysterical as well. He glanced at Bethany out of the corner of his eye, just to make sure she wasn’t getting into mischief, and saw that she had stopped flailing. He didn’t know if she was still squeaking, because Lily and Finn were competitively trying to sing louder and louder.

“Okay, okay,” John finally cut in. “I think three verses is enough. Well done all around.” The children seemed in a better mood now—maybe they should open every breakfast with a singalong. Sherlock would _love_ that.

There were no more sloth noises now, at least, and as they went back to eating Finn started explaining his stellar cartography lesson. That was what they had called mere geography on John’s planet, and at Finn’s age John’s lessons had been more like ‘Draw a blue circle around the post box’ and ‘Trace Susie’s way home from school.’ Rather more complicated now, it seemed.

After a few minutes John felt a tug on his leg and looked down to see Bethany gazing up at him tremulously. He reached his arm down and she climbed up to his shoulder, her attitude hesitant and, he hoped, chastened. “Do you feel better now, Bethany?” he asked her gently, petting her arm around his neck.

She pointed vaguely at his cereal bowl. “Banana?” she asked, her voice soft and wavering.

John gave her a big smile. “Would you like a banana slice? There you go.” He picked one out of his bowl and gave it to her. “It’s got a little oatmeal on it, but that won’t hurt you. That’s yummy, isn’t it?”

“Papa, was that Bethany’s first word in English?” Finn wanted to know.

“I think so,” John agreed. “I wonder how sloths even _learn_ English.”

“It’s not terribly difficult, John,” Sherlock assured him crisply. “Rather dull as far as linguistics goes.” John rolled his eyes, content with the success of one behavior modification program at a time.

**

“Hello, George,” John said as he entered the library.

“Hello, George,” Roger echoed.

“Hello, George,” Bethany added softly.

At this George finally descended from his ladder and looked at them. “You got another sloth,” he realized with excitement.

“Yes, this is Bethany,” John explained. “She’s new.”

“Hello, Bethany,” George said, making a funny face at her. Bethany ducked around behind John’s back and George’s expression fell.

“She’s a little shy,” John told him, apologetically. “You remember Roger, though?”

“Ugly, mate!” proclaimed Roger, pretending to drink from a flask, and George laughed.

“That’s me!” he agreed, petting Roger. “Where’d you get the new one? I’ve been trying to find one for the kids, I think Susanna will like it if she gets used to it.”

John did not find that very likely, given what he knew of Susanna. “Um, at a planetside market a while ago,” he answered vaguely. “Roger, do you remember?”

“Remember,” Roger repeated unhelpfully.

“Remember,” Bethany added from behind John, in a higher pitch.

“I can look it up for you,” John offered, though that wouldn’t do much good as they were well past it by now. “I think they’re fairly common.”

“Common!”

“Common.” John took a breath and rolled his eyes as George grinned.

“Is there an echo in here?” George asked cheekily.

“Here.”

“Here!”

“Finn’s not allowed to have his sloth at school anymore—” John tried to explain.

“Anymore!” repeated Roger in despair.

“Anymore,” added Bethany.

“—so I’m watching both of them—“

“Both of them!”

“Both of them.”

John gritted his teeth and attempted to continue. “—and they get lonely in the playroom by themselves—“

“Lonely!” said Roger dramatically.

“Lonely,” agreed Bethany.

“Guys, could you stop?” John requested, a bit sharply. _He_ was the one who chose to walk around with two imitative sloths on his shoulders, so there were certain things he just had to put up with, but surely they could control themselves a little bit (despite all evidence to the contrary).

“Stop,” repeated Roger.

“Stop,” said Bethany.

“Stop!” Roger told her gleefully, poking her.

“Stop!” Bethany shot back, pushing him.

“STOP!” John snapped. The sloths went silent for an instant, then started squeaking and clicking to each other in sloth language, probably about how mean John was. “They’re delightful, I think Susanna would really love one,” he deadpanned to George, who laughed knowingly.

In the background he heard Roger and Bethany whispering, “Love one!” but at least it was at a lower volume.

“Yes, maybe I should reconsider that plan,” George agreed.

**

“Three points!” John claimed, as the miniature basketball swooshed through the hoop.

“No, you have to be behind the line!” Lily countered, retrieving the ball for her own shot. “You have to be behind the line, Papa!”

“I was _completely_ behind the line,” John insisted good-naturedly. “Didn’t you see—“

“Bethany, give me back the crayons!” he heard Finn demanding. “Those are mine!”

“Mine!” Bethany echoed, clutching a handful of crayons to her chest.

“No, they’re _mine_!”

“Mine!”

“Mine!”

“Mine!”

Then the inevitable. “Papa!” Finn whined, stomping over in frustration. “Bethany won’t give me the crayons. Make her give them back!”

John caught the boy in a hug. “You’re talking to an imitative sloth, darling,” he pointed out. “She probably thinks you’re playing.” Indeed, Bethany seemed confused as to why Finn had left her at the table. “You’ve got to be clever and think of a way to get them back,” John encouraged.

Sensing she was being discussed Bethany hopped over to them eagerly. “Mine,” she told Finn preemptively, hugging the crayons.

Finn gave this some thought. “Yours!” he responded, holding out his hands.

“Yours!” Bethany mimicked happily, offering the crayons.

Finn took them promptly. “Thank you.”

“Thank you!” Bethany echoed.

“Very clever,” John praised, ruffling Finn’s hair.

“Roger knows what I mean,” the boy pointed out with some exasperation.

Bethany had climbed up on John’s shoulder and now ruffled his hair messily. “Very clever!” she declared.

“Yes, well, I suspect Bethany is younger than Roger,” John sighed, trying to smooth down his hair.

Roger looked up from where he was helping Arthur put together a puzzle. “Juvenile,” he judged disdainfully.

Bethany jumped onto Lily’s back and ruffled _her_ hair. “Very clever!”

“At least she’s happy,” John shrugged.


	7. Bethany loves Sherlock

“And you’re sure you can put it back together again?” John asked dubiously.

“ _Yes_ , John,” Sherlock replied, patronizingly but with just a hint of uncertainty that few others would detect. “I am, as you see, putting it back together right now.”

“Uh-huh.” John leaned over the console, watching as Sherlock lay on the floor and worked underneath the panel. Various tools and parts, for lack of more specific terms, lay scattered around him.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Bethany repeated from John’s shoulder.

“Well, Bethany believes you, anyway,” John teased.

“This circuitry is very delicate,” Sherlock warned. “It would _not do_ to get sloth fur in it.”

“I’m keeping her up here, she’s not bothering you.” John watched for a bit longer, and indeed the parts seemed to be disappearing as Sherlock replaced them. Bethany got bored and started to groom John, her pointy fingers picking through his hair. He was used to that by now and even found it relaxing, like a scalp massage.

“There! All done,” Sherlock announced triumphantly, sliding back out from under the console. The movement startled Bethany, who scampered over behind the dustbin.

“What’s that?” John pointed out.

“What?”

“That right there,” John specified patiently, indicating a small metal object on the floor. Sherlock scooped it up hurriedly.

“It’s nothing,” he claimed.

“Is it a leftover part?”

“Well, not really—“

“You took it apart, then put it back together, but now there’s a bit leftover,” John summarized dryly.

“It’s not an _important_ part,” Sherlock insisted. John would bet money he wasn’t even sure _what_ part it was. “Obviously.”

“Yes, clearly.”

Sherlock tried to casually chuck the part into the rubbish bin but missed (there was a reason _he_ did not play basketball with Lily) and Bethany snatched it up. John foresaw trouble.

“Bethany, put that—“ She scrambled up to a shelf out of reach, turning the part over and over in her paws. “That could be dangerous, sweetie—“

“It’s not _dangerous_ , John,” Sherlock scoffed. “It’s merely a spherical anodizer connectoid.” He said this with great confidence; John suspected he’d just now looked it up.

“Well it’s not a toy,” John said anyway, trying to catch Bethany as she hopped away. “You shouldn’t have given it to her—“

“I didn’t _give_ it to her, I was trying to throw it away—“ Bethany hopped onto Sherlock’s shoulder, wrapping her furry arm around his neck while she examined her prize. John saw him cringe and, laudably, restrain himself from prying her off. “John, please remove this creature from me,” he commanded coolly.

“Sherlock loves Bethany!” Bethany declared with joy, shaking the metal part. It rattled somewhat. “Bethany loves Sherlock!” She cuddled against him.

John covered his smirk with his hand, though too slow for Sherlock to miss. The other man was standing very still, taking deep breaths for patience. “John,” he ground out.

“You gave her a present, Sherlock,” he explained in an upbeat tone. “A present that makes noise!”

“Sherlock loves Bethany,” Bethany cooed. “Bethany loves Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “John—“

John decided he’d been pushed far enough. “Okay, come here, sweetie, and show me your toy,” he coaxed, lifting Bethany from Sherlock’s shoulder. The other man practically collapsed in relief.

“Sherlock loves Bethany,” she repeated in some confusion as John carried her away to the couch.

“Yes, well, Sherlock prefers to love from afar,” John told her.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sherlock declared in disgust, exiting swiftly.

“Let me see, come on, let me see it,” John persuaded the sloth, who was reluctant to share her treasure. Finally he got it away from her. It was a round metal ball with a plastic loop coming out of it, and something inside it rattled when he shook it. “Baker, is this safe for Bethany to play with?” he asked the ship’s computer.

“I suppose so. Seems like a rather dull toy to me,” Baker opined.

“It has sentimental value,” John said dryly. Bethany reached for it and he held it away, giving her a look. “But it won’t poison her or electrocute her or anything?”

“Unlikely.”

“Okay, you can have it,” John allowed, and Bethany took it back immediately.

“Sherlock loves Bethany,” she told him, waggling the toy in his face.

“Yes, I think he does,” John agreed, leaning away from it. “The part isn’t actually needed for anything, Baker?” he checked.

“It was a backup,” the computer explained. John pictured Judi Dench rolling her eyes. “I’ve fixed it already.”

“Well will you give Sherlock a refresher on engineering?” he requested with some exasperation. “I mean, we can’t have him just ripping parts out and giving them to sloths.”

“He’s checking the diagrams right now,” Baker assured him.

“Good.” Bethany put her fingers through the plastic loop and shook her toy even harder. “Wow, that is super-fun,” John told her, trying to be supportive. “Shall we go show it to Roger?”

Bethany thought this was a very good idea. “Roger Roger Roger!” she sang as John carried her to the playroom. “Roger Roger Roger!”

Roger and Finn were at the table coloring when John sat down. “What’s that?” Finn wanted to know of the object Bethany dangled boastfully in front of Roger.

“Daddy’s been fixing things again,” John told him dryly.

“Sherlock loves Bethany!” Bethany bragged.

Roger could see the truth of this in her _amazing_ present. “Finn loves Roger,” he said pointedly, turning to the boy.

Finn looked up and John grinned as he realized what Roger was getting at. “Oh, right, Finn loves Roger,” he agreed quickly, and got up from his chair to look around the playroom for suitable tribute.

“Finn loves Roger,” Roger repeated conversationally as they waited. He scribbled idly on a piece of paper with a green crayon and Bethany joined him, making bold orange marks.

Finally Finn returned. “Ta-da!” He presented Roger with a matchbox car. “Finn loves Roger!”

“Roger loves Finn!” Roger declared happily, hugging the boy. Bethany leaned over with great curiosity.

Once Finn went back to coloring, rolling his eyes at the silliness of sloths, Roger and Bethany got down to serious business. Bethany’s toy rolled; Roger’s toy rolled. Bethany’s toy rattled when shaken; so did Roger’s. Roger’s toy was longer and Bethany’s was taller; but they seemed to weigh about the same. Therefore, both represented equal amounts of love.

“Sherlock loves Bethany,” Bethany concluded.

“Finn loves Roger,” Roger agreed.

“John loves Bethany,” John put in with some amusement. “Even though I didn’t get you a present.”

“Bethany loves John!” she insisted, with gratifying rapidity, hopping up on his shoulder to hug his face.

“Of course you do, you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” John agreed, once he got her fur out of his mouth.

“Roger loves John,” Roger added, engulfing him from the other side.

“Oh, John loves Roger, too!” He made a little breathing room through the sloths and reached over to poke Finn. “John loves Finn!”

The boy giggled. “Papa, you’re talking like a sloth!” he accused.

“And probably looking like one, too,” John decided, gently encouraging the creatures off him. “I’ll turn into one, one of these days.” Roger and Bethany went back to playing with their new toys. “Now what have you been doing today?”


	8. Sloth Bath Day, Part 3

Finn found Sherlock studying three-dimensional holographic chemical structures in the living room. “Daddy, can you help me?” he asked, crawling up onto his lap.

Sherlock shoved the holograms aside. “Help you do what?” he inquired.

“Well, it’s the day to give Roger and Bethany their baths,” Finn explained, reluctance in his tone.

“Oh.”

“Usually Papa helps me, but…”

“Papa is away right now,” Sherlock finished. John had gone down to the planet they were orbiting with the rest of the scouting party, to see if it would be suitable for a human colony. “They can’t just clean themselves?” he checked hopefully.

“No, Daddy, they’re just sloths,” Finn told him.

“Well, Papa always talks about how intelligent and self-aware they are,” Sherlock protested. “How much is required to bathe?” Clearly not much, he felt.

“Roger is okay with his bath now, but Bethany still fusses,” Finn went on, deciding his father’s question was rhetorical. “I promised Papa I would look after Bethany for him, but I’ve never given them baths by myself!”

Sherlock decided this was what John had been referring to when, upon leaving in the shuttle, he had smirked and said, “Good luck!”

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, determined to do his duty. “Sloth bath day!”

Finn slid off his lap and took his hand, and together they went back to the playroom. Roger was trying to teach Bethany to dress a baby doll (evidently a necessary skill), but Bethany kept getting distracted trying to put on the little hats and shoes herself. Then Lily had to come over and sort them out. “No, Bethany,” she said yet again, exasperated. “That’s not your hat. You’re stretching it out!”

“No,” Roger repeated, snatching the little sunbonnet from Bethany. “No no no!”

“No no no!” Bethany echoed, trying to take it back.

“No!”

“No!”

“NO!”

“NO!”

“G-d, it’s like having two horrible, furry toddlers,” Sherlock judged with distaste.

Lily greeted her father’s arrival with relief. “Daddy! Is it time for their baths?” This made the sloths sit up alertly and look suspicious.

“So I’m told,” Sherlock agreed, facing them sternly.

“No!” Bethany said once more, stubbornly.

Finn petted her. “Bethany is just out of sorts without Papa,” he excused charitably.

“Well, that’s understandable,” Sherlock decided. He felt the same way himself. “Come on, let’s get started.”

Finn picked up Roger, who swung onto his back easily. “Daddy, can you carry Bethany?” he prompted.

Sherlock really didn’t want to. “Can’t she walk?”

“NO!” Bethany said loudly, though this may not really have been meant as an answer. Finn gave his father a pointed look, and Sherlock sighed and reached out to the sloth. Readily she climbed up to his shoulder, discarding the doll hat carelessly.

They proceeded into the bathroom. “Better shut the door,” Finn warned, so Sherlock did. Roger sat obediently on the edge of the tub while Finn put an inch of warm water in a large basin. “Okay, Roger, get in the water!” Finn encouraged. Roger just blinked at him as if to say, _yeah, right_. “Oh!” Finn remembered. He pulled out the little red boat and put it into the basin. Roger just sat there. Finn added the water wheel. Roger shifted his weight a little. Finn put the bucket balance in as well. Roger leaned over as if surveying the offerings more closely.

“There’s hardly room for the sloths,” Sherlock noted dryly.

“Remember Roger, if you’re good you get a treat after,” Finn promised. This was the tipping point and Roger settled himself into the water.

“Bribery is allowed?” Sherlock surmised, surprised. John always told him not to use that with the children.

“Oh yes,” Finn agreed knowledgeably. “Now you have to put Bethany in.”

“Bethany, get in the water,” Sherlock ordered. Surprising no one but Sherlock, Bethany refused. Finn gave him a nod as if saying, _now you see the problem_.

Sherlock was not going to be foiled by a small, chocolate-colored sloth, however. With some effort he managed to grasp Bethany as she tried to scamper away and brought her to the basin. She squeaked, she clicked, she squirmed, she went suddenly limp, but finally Sherlock plopped her down in the water, where she let out a melodramatic squeaky wail. Then Roger splashed water in her face, silencing her as she gave him an affronted look. She splashed him back, and soon the two sloths were throwing water at each other with abandon while Finn laughed.

“Is that how they bathe?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“No, Daddy, they’re just being silly,” Finn told him.

Sherlock frowned. “Well, stop then!” he ordered, and the sloths froze. “This is not silly time, this is bath time!” He picked up two washcloths and dropped them into the basin. “So, bathe!”

“Daddy, they don’t—“ Then Finn paused to watch in amazement as the sloths began to bathe themselves. Well, Roger had wet the washcloth and was dabbing at himself curiously with it; and Bethany had draped her washcloth over her head like a hat, while chewing on one corner. But that was more interest than either of them had shown previously.

“Good Roger!” Finn praised, rapidly changing tactics. “Good Bethany! Good for washing!”

“Washing,” Roger repeated dubiously.

“Washing!” added Bethany obliviously.

“Do we have to just wait here?” Sherlock wanted to know, not liking the prospect. “They don’t seem very efficient.”

Finn, who had two sloths _and_ a parent to manage, narrowly avoided sighing. “We have to help them wash, Daddy,” he explained, taking the cloth from Roger and beginning to wipe him with it. Docilely Roger went back to playing with his toys. “Can you do Bethany?” he prompted his father.

“Oh. Alright.” Sherlock rolled up his shirt sleeves and knelt by the side of the tub. First, he had to obtain the washcloth from Bethany, who professed to think he wanted to play tug-of-war with it. Deftly Roger leaned over and dumped a cup of water onto her head, which distracted her enough to let Sherlock take the cloth. However, if her whiny squeaks and his gleeful ones were any indication, helping Sherlock was just a side benefit.

“You have to get their tummy, and their back, and their arms,” Finn instructed confidently as he demonstrated with Roger. “Especially their fingers. You have to do each finger individually, because they get dirty.”

“They eat with their hands,” Sherlock remembered, trying not to get grossed out. “Can’t they wash _those_ more often?”

“Papa and I are trying to train them,” Finn assured him.

“I’m sure the imitative sloths who assist with autopsies have greater cleanliness,” Sherlock insisted, washing each of Bethany’s pointy little fingers. “Or, perhaps that’s why they assist with autopsies, and not surgeries,” he added darkly.

Finn washed Roger’s head and face, and the sloth momentarily paused his play to hold still, lean, or cover his eyes as directed. Sherlock was certain he was using the exact same commands with Bethany, but she didn’t seem to respond properly, instead squirming away and then loudly complaining when water got in her eyes. “Is this one of substandard intellect, compared to Roger?” Sherlock proposed in frustration.

“Papa thinks she’s younger than Roger,” Finn conveyed. “Papa says she’s _sassy_ , too.”

“Sassy,” Sherlock repeated dubiously, not finding it complimentary.

“Sassy!” sputtered Bethany, spitting out some bathwater.

“Sassy,” added Roger judgmentally.

“Okay, Roger, stick your legs out so I can wash them,” Finn told his sloth.

“Legs?” Sherlock interrupted in confusion. “They haven’t got—“ One of Roger’s feet came out of the water, several inches from his body. “What the h—l?!”

“Daddy—“ Finn warned.

“What the h—l!” Bethany repeated gleefully.

“What the h—l!” added Roger.

“Daddy, they repeat what you say,” Finn pointed out sternly, thinking this ought to have been obvious.

“What the h—l!”

“What the h—l!”

“What the h—l!”

“Um, sorry,” Sherlock told him, realizing too late all the implications of this. “They seem to forget pretty quickly, don’t you think?” Finn gave him a look that suggested this should not be counted on. “Er, alright, Bethany, extend your legs,” he commanded quickly. Naturally, she did not. “Bethany—wait, does _she_ have legs as well?” Sherlock was not going to take anything for granted from now on.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Well, how do you get them out?” Sherlock asked, peering into the water. “Is there a button or something?”

One of Roger’s little flat duck feet poked out of the water, as if innocently stretching, and then smacked Bethany in the face. Immediately she let out a squall and retaliated with her own feet, and soon they were poking and swatting at each other, splashing out what little water was left.

“Enough!” Sherlock snapped, tired of getting soaked, and he reached into the basin and lifted Bethany out, setting her on the floor of the tub. “You can just sit there,” he ordered above her protests, swabbing her legs. “If they don’t get along we shouldn’t keep them together so much,” he judged.

Roger peeped over the edge of the basin. “Bethany?”

“Roger!” she squeaked pathetically, as Sherlock doused her under the torrent of the tub faucet. A soggy sloth with a bad attitude, he thought darkly, wondering what John found so endearing about her.

“I think they get along, Daddy,” Finn offered. “Papa says they’re like siblings.” He carefully rinsed Roger with the handheld showerhead.

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded, understanding. “Archenemies, then. Even more reason to separate them. Well, what now?” he wanted to know.

“Now we have to dry them before they get cold,” Finn instructed, deciding to skip the shampoo this time. He opened a towel in his arms. “Can you hand Roger to me?”

Grimacing, Sherlock did so, and Finn engulfed him in the towel. Then Sherlock picked up another towel and tumbled Bethany up in it, trying to touch her as little as possible. He triumphantly deposited the bundle on the bathmat, with Bethany peering out of a small gap in the wrapping.

“So, done now?” he asked hopefully.

Finn was patting Roger dry carefully. “No, Daddy,” he said patiently. “We have to use the hair dryer on them.”

“Oh G-d,” Sherlock sighed, sagging against the side of the tub.

“No, they like the hair dryer!” Finn assured him. He showed his father how to blow-dry Roger, then he was on his own with Bethany. To Sherlock’s amazement she was well-behaved, even helpful for this part.

When they were done Sherlock looked between Roger and Bethany with a frown. “Did I do it wrong?” he asked. “Why is she so funny-looking now?”

“Funny-looking!” Roger proclaimed, pointing at Bethany.

“Daddy!” Finn hissed, and swiftly grabbed the very fluffy, puffy Bethany and set her up on the sink before she could react to Roger. “Oh, Bethany, you look so pretty!” he enthused, pointing out her reflection in the mirror. “Would you like your treat for being good?”

“Treat! Treat!” Bethany demanded.

“ _Were_ they good?” Sherlock questioned doubtfully.

“Papa says we should be lenient about that sort of thing,” Finn revealed. Then he opened a drawer and took out a handful of colorful bows. “Which bow would you like today, Bethany?” he asked her.

“Pink bow, pink bow!” she replied, reaching for it.

“No, let _me_ put it in, okay, Bethany?” Finn countered, putting the others away. “Remember what happened before? You got your fur all tangled.”

“Tangled,” Bethany remembered sadly.

Finn clipped the bow through some of the fur on her head and she preened in the mirror. “Yes, you’re so pretty!”

“Funny-looking,” Roger coughed behind her.

“Does Roger get a bow as his treat, too?” Sherlock asked, trying to appear interested.

“No, Roger prefers cheese,” Finn informed him.

“Cheese cheese cheese!”

“We’re almost done, Daddy,” Finn added. Sherlock might need a treat after this as well. “We just have to clean out their nests.”

Sherlock grimaced. “That sounds unpleasant.”

Finn picked up Roger and started to leave the bathroom. “Well, we put the old clothes in the laundry and vacuum out the loose fur, and then we give them new clothes to start their nests with.” Sherlock missed part of the explanation because he forgot he was supposed to carry Bethany and she squeaked loudly when it looked like she might be left behind. He ducked back and grabbed her, then had to catch up with Finn in his bedroom, where Bethany’s nest had been placed while John was gone.

Roger was already sitting on Finn’s bed, munching a piece of cheese and clutching his toy car possessively while Finn stuffed a pile of clothes down the laundry chute. Sherlock shooed Bethany onto the bed and peered into her cylinder dubiously. “Is it safe to reach in?” he checked. “They don’t set traps or anything?”

“No, Daddy,” Finn laughed.

Sherlock steeled himself and reached in, pulling out a handful of rumpled clothes. “Sherlock loves Bethany!” Bethany suddenly shouted from the bed.

“I suppose that’s one interpretation,” he responded noncommittally.

“She wants her toy,” Finn translated. “The ball you gave her. It’s probably in her nest somewhere.”

“I didn’t _give_ it to her, I was aiming for the dustbin—“ Sherlock tried to explain, shaking out the clothes.

“You’re getting fur everywhere!” Finn complained.

“Oh, sorry.” Finally he located Bethany’s toy, which had been tucked—rather sensibly, surprisingly—in the pocket of one of John’s shirts. “Here.”

She put the plastic loop around her fingers and shook it happily. “Sherlock loves Bethany!”

“Finn loves Roger,” Roger reminded her, showing her his toy car. They paused to compare them, giving Finn and Sherlock a chance to vacuum the nests and Finn’s floor.

“Okay,” Finn sighed. “Almost done!” He got out a pair of his pajama bottoms. “Here, Roger, you can start your nest with this!”

Roger took the pajamas and turned them all around, then decided they were satisfactory. “Roger loves Finn!” he declared, hugging the boy.

“I love you, too, silly sloth,” Finn told him affectionately. Even though he was kind of relieved to see the creature disappear into his nest for a while.

“Baker, I need some piece of John’s clothing,” Sherlock requested. “A t-shirt or something.”

“Here you go,” Baker replied, as one materialized on the bed, still neatly folded. It bore the logo of John’s medical school, rather faded. “He’s used this one for Bethany before.”

“Okay, Bethany, grab the shirt and get in,” Sherlock encouraged, gesturing.

She did grab the shirt at least and sniffed at it. “Bethany loves John,” she sighed mournfully.

“Papa’s coming back soon, Bethany,” Finn promised, rubbing her back. “Don’t be sad.”

“I’m sure John loves you, too, Bethany,” Sherlock added helpfully. This didn’t seem to motivate her to move. “Is there anything else we have to do?” he checked with Finn. “We’ve done it all, right? She can get in her nest whenever she wants.”

“Yeah,” Finn agreed with a sigh. “I just don’t like it when she’s upset.”

“That seems to happen rather often with her,” Sherlock observed. Inspiration struck. “Let’s you and I go do something fun, and let the sloths rest.”

Finn perked up at this. “Okay, Daddy! I’ll show you the new feeding station Lily and I made for Lydia…”


	9. John returns

It took Sherlock a couple days to adjust to Bethany being on his shoulder all the time, but then he found that he quite forgot about her. The soft repetition of his words even faded from his notice, and Bethany seemed content to sit there with her arm around his neck, occasionally picking at his hair. The computer periodically reminded him to take her back to the playroom for food or further socialization; but after seeing her rather overdramatic behavior earlier, Sherlock decided it wasn’t fair to burden Finn (or Roger) with her sole care. The calming environment Sherlock provided when he studied slides in the lab or dissected an insect seemed to agree with her and there was much less whining and foot stamping from Bethany. Or perhaps Sherlock had merely stopped noticing it.

“Must you bring that creature in here?” Mycroft asked with a huff as Sherlock entered his office.

“Crea—oh, this is Bethany, John’s imitative sloth,” Sherlock introduced, knowing full well his brother didn’t care. “I’m looking after her while John’s gone. I’m afraid she requires constant supervision.”

“Constant supervision,” Bethany echoed in agreement.

“And _you_ manage to provide that?” Mycroft scoffed. “I’m surprised John entrusted you with his pet, let alone the children.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth at the oh-so-common barb and was about to unleash a scathing reply. “Let alone the children!” Bethany repeated in a scolding tone.

Sherlock felt this indicated support for himself. “Bethany’s very sensitive, you mustn’t upset her,” he warned, wondering which of the objects on his brother’s desk would look best with sloth teeth marks in it.

“Oh honestly,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. “It was bad enough when Greg wanted to keep the family dog for his children, but at least he doesn’t insist upon carrying it around all the time.”

“All the time!” maintained Bethany, tightening her grip on Sherlock.

“Really, those imitative sloths are so tedious,” Mycroft concluded.

At this, Bethany puffed out her stomach and said, in a voice of exaggerated disdain, “Sooo tedious!” Sherlock snickered, so Bethany repeated this, adding in a little waddling motion for good measure. Sherlock found this funny, too, in proportion to Mycroft’s increasing annoyance.

“Might we have some peace from your portable court jester?” he asked acidly. “I have one or two serious matters to discuss with you.”

Sherlock sighed and slumped back in his chair. It was going to be about improper resource allocation again, or something else horribly dull. Well, why should Bethany suffer as well. “Bethany, go over there and play,” he suggested to her. “Get some paper and crayons or something.” The sloth hopped away to a side table behind Mycroft, where Sherlock could still keep an eye on her.

Then the lecture began. “Proper resource allocation is key to the management of a large ship such as ours…” and Sherlock was taking up more than his share, or something? Personally Sherlock thought his brother was just feeling stingy and wanted to chastise him for something. It was probably on his biweekly agenda—“Chastise Sherlock, Wednesday 3pm.”

Then Sherlock noticed that Bethany was imitating his brother, behind his shoulder. Mycroft tilted his head; Bethany’s looked like it might fall off. Mycroft made a dismissive hand gesture; Bethany threw her whole arm into it. Mycroft leaned back in defeat; Bethany pretended to collapse. It was all Sherlock could do not to stare at her continuously, and he felt the laughter bubble up inside him, all the keener for being wildly inappropriate. When Mycroft became suspicious and turned to look at Bethany, however, she was merely scribbling innocently.

“I trust I’ve made my point clear,” Mycroft finished pompously, as Bethany waddled around behind him with her chest sticking out.

“Mm-hmm,” was all Sherlock trusted himself to say.

Mycroft was clearly not expecting so little reaction from his brother, but he could hardly chide him for listening quietly without argument or snide remarks. It was very unnatural for Sherlock, though. “Very well,” Mycroft allowed. “You may return to your duties.” Bethany gave a mock salute behind him and Sherlock had to close his eyes.

He cleared his throat and stood quickly, summoning Bethany to him silently, and she swung up to his shoulder eagerly, waving her multicolored drawing in his face. “Hmm, yes, very evocative,” he managed to tell her as they left Mycroft’s office.

Once safely in the hall a mad giggle escaped him, and then he couldn’t stop laughing, staggering against the wall and through a door to his room, and finally collapsing against the couch, laughing until his eyes ran and his sides hurt. Then Bethany began to imitate his laugh and posture, and he started all over again. Perhaps these sloths had some purpose after all.

**

John was home! This was terribly exciting for everyone, especially the children who crowded around him eager to share their lessons and art projects, and especially Sherlock who practically elbowed the children aside to show John the new species of mold he’d developed, and especially the sloths who jumped all over him proclaiming their love. So, everyone.

The children got first priority, which made Sherlock pout a little until he remembered they went to bed early. Then it would just be him, John, and the mold. Well, once he was rid of the sloths.

“Yes, Bethany, I missed you, too!” John assured her for the seventeenth time.

“I’ve prepared slides of the entire life cycle,” Sherlock said enticingly, brandishing his microscope.

“Well that sounds lovely,” John assured him, petting Roger who had pounced on him. “Okay, okay, what have you two learned while I’ve been gone, then?”

Bethany had learned something new. She started to waddle across the table, swinging her shoulders like they were huge, puffing out her chest, and repeating, “Sooo tedious!” in increasingly disdainful tones. She had perfected the impression, Sherlock felt, no doubt based on his reactions, and the customary giddiness rose up inside him and burst forth.

“What the h—l,” Roger intoned, which perfectly described the look on John’s face, but perhaps oughtn’t to be expressed by the children’s pet.

“What the h—l!” echoed Bethany gleefully, for her second act.

“She’s doing Mycroft, see—“ Sherlock tried to explain, laughing only weakly now. John was giving him a very unamused look.

“Roger, Bethany, come here,” John said, gathering the sloths close. “Those are _naughty_ words, and you mustn’t repeat them,” he lectured seriously.

“What the h—l?” questioned Roger.

“Yes, that’s what you mustn’t say,” John reiterated. “It’s naughty.”

“Naughty!” Bethany proclaimed, poking at Roger. He swiped back at her.

“I’m sure you didn’t realize,” John allowed tolerantly, “and you probably heard them from someone who wasn’t being careful.” He wasn’t going to look at Sherlock, but the sloths immediately pointed at him. “Do you understand?”

“Naughty,” agreed Roger.

“Naughty!” chirped Bethany, sounding far too cheerful.

“Okay. Why don’t you two go to bed now, and I’ll see you in the morning?” John finally suggested to them. However, by this point Sherlock was feeling far less confident about his mold’s chances.


	10. Enter Thaddeus

John eagerly awaited Sherlock’s return at the entrance to the shuttle bay. Negotiations with a little-known culture were always dicey, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly the most diplomatic person around. John had in fact been mystified when Mycroft insisted Sherlock accompany him, but he supposed the elder Holmes had his reasons.

The green light went on and John entered the garage as the door of the shuttle opened with a hiss. He wasn’t normally standing on the doorstep when Sherlock got home but his messages en route had been rather cryptic. Mycroft emerged first, then Lestrade—he had gone along for security or some such purpose—and finally Sherlock, looking no worse for wear. John waved to him, but he turned back inside the shuttle, his arm reaching down as if for one of the children. Who had definitely _not_ gone on the trip.

Instead what emerged from the shuttle, its long arm tethered to Sherlock’s, was a good-sized grey lump, waddling along with a familiar gait. Growing impatient Sherlock scooped it up and pushed it onto his shoulder; though small compared to Sherlock, it was quite over-sized for that position, and gave Sherlock a bit of a Quasimodo look.

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he looked back at his brother. “Just what we needed, another one of _those_ ,” he said with some disdain.

“Another one of _those_?” repeated the grey creature in an affronted tone, vaguely reminiscent of a stuffy professor.

“Oh, the kids would love it,” Lestrade countered cheerfully.

“Kids love it,” agreed the creature sagely.

“Absolutely not,” Mycroft forbid. “I don’t need something hanging about mimicking me all day.”

“All day,” the creature warned, as if agreeing with his caution.

“Is that an imitative sloth?” John realized as he joined them.

“Imitative sloth!” the animal repeated, his tone suggesting John had guessed correctly on a particularly cheesy game show. John had never seen one of that size before—about twice Bethany’s size, at least—nor was he expecting to see Sherlock so comfortable with it resting on his shoulder, its furry arm around his neck.

“I won him,” Sherlock conveyed smugly.

Mycroft did not find this worth being smug about. “More importantly,” he announced, above the sloth’s repetition of Sherlock, “we were able to secure an agreement to explore this sector for habitable planets.”

“Well, that’s good news,” John agreed, following them out of the shuttle bay. “But, er, how did you end up with a sloth? And what are you going to do with it?”

“His name is Thaddeus,” Sherlock informed him. “Thaddeus, this is John, he’s very important to me.”

“Important John!” Thaddeus hailed, holding out his paw as John went a little weak in the knees. He was such a sucker for Sherlock’s matter-of-fact statements of affection—they even made up for not being greeted properly.

“Hello, Thaddeus,” John replied after clearing his throat, shaking the sloth’s pointy fingers.

“I wish you had been there, John, I was terribly brilliant!” Sherlock enthused.

“Terribly brilliant!”

“You see, this culture negotiates only in riddles! Which I rather cleverly deduced, while Mycroft was floundering.”

“Floundering!”

“I’m already finding that creature tedious,” Mycroft noted, as if that would do any good.

“Thaddeus, ask Bethany to show you her impression of Mycroft sometime,” Sherlock instructed with a smirk. “Bethany is John’s sloth, and our son Finn has one named Roger.”

“A nice little sloth family,” Lestrade commented pleasantly. “What about a janitorial parrot for the kids, they’re supposed to be quite good at cleaning up after—“

“No,” Mycroft denied firmly. “We already have the dog, who is completely useless as far as I can tell.” Lestrade did not look like he was going to give up anytime soon.

They reached an intersection of the hallways and stopped. “Well done with figuring out those little puzzles,” Mycroft told Sherlock in an airy tone. His attempts at compliments were always rather awkward, and Sherlock never took them well anyway.

“A trifle,” Sherlock claimed ungraciously. “Hardly worth the effort of getting dressed.”

“Well, at least you got a new pet out of it,” Mycroft pointed out insincerely.

“Out of it!” Thaddeus insisted, as if he was telling Mycroft to go away. John put up a hand to cover his smirk at the other man’s affronted expression.

Lestrade didn’t bother to hide his but took Mycroft’s hand. “Come on, love, let’s go check on the kids,” he suggested. Sherlock shuddered violently at this show of warmth between them—between his brother and _anyone_ —followed immediately by Thaddeus doing the same, which nearly dislodged him from Sherlock’s shoulder.

“And write our reports,” Mycroft added. He was always slightly flustered by Lestrade’s affectionate gestures towards him as well, though John noticed he didn’t drop his hand. “I’ll expect your report as well!” he told Sherlock as they went rapidly in opposite directions.

“Expect away,” Sherlock muttered.

“Away, away!” emphasized Thaddeus.

John waited until Sherlock had dragged him around a corner—wandering the halls was pointless here, when you could have a door to anywhere you wanted instantly—then noted, “Still waiting for that explanation.”

“Oh, right,” Sherlock remembered, starting to get enthused again away from Mycroft. “So, they negotiate in riddles. Mostly obvious once you get the hang of it, but a few were rather fiendish. And, it’s part of a game as well, which you have to win at various levels to continue negotiating.”

“I see why Mycroft wanted you to come,” John admitted. He’d initially been a bit disappointed to be left out, but now he was glad he’d missed it—he probably would only have felt superfluous, while Mycroft and Sherlock matched wits with alien riddlers.

“Anyway, they also give you other things as you win, cups and flowers and so forth,” Sherlock went on. “And I won Thaddeus! He’s quite intelligent, really.”

“Really,” agreed Thaddeus.

“And I would’ve called to check with you first,” Sherlock claimed, which John appreciated even if he didn’t entirely believe it, “but they get suspicious about outside communication, in case we’re consulting other people about the riddles, and anyway I knew you’d agree because you’re rather funny about animals, John, and they were keeping him in the most appalling conditions! No intellectual stimulation at all, just telling silly jokes and juggling.”

“ _Juggling_ ,” Thaddeus emphasized with distaste.

“He used to belong to a professor of some sort and already has a great deal of knowledge about chemistry and biology,” Sherlock added. “Also poetry. No, thank you,” he said abruptly, as Thaddeus cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, as if about to recite.

“Well that’s lovely,” John assured him, once he could get a word in. “You’ve rescued him! Well done.”

Sherlock was moderately pleased with this praise. “Well, the riddle to get him _was_ one of the trickier ones, depending heavily on knowledge of the local mythology which I don’t think is quite—“

John hugged Sherlock suddenly and gave him a kiss, which was effective in silencing him for a few moments. “Sorry, I’ve been waiting to do that,” he explained with a smile. “I’m glad you’re back.” Thankfully Thaddeus did not make kissy noises to mimic them, as Bethany and even Roger occasionally did. “And this fellow seems very dignified,” he added of the sloth pleasantly. “Do you want me to carry him for a bit?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Why?”

John smiled patiently. “I know you don’t like touching animals,” he pointed out. “And he is a bit, well, fully grown,” he added, trying to be tactful.

“Fully grown?” Thaddeus repeated, calling John out on the phrasing.

“Of course he’s fully grown, John, he’s been around for a while,” Sherlock explained. “And probably got too many rich foods and not enough exercise.” Thaddeus harrumphed and did not repeat this. “But we’ll soon set him right. Our other sloths are very healthy. Aren’t they?” he checked.

“Oh yes,” John promised. “Healthy and active. In fact Roger has learned to tie shoes, along with Arthur, this week. Bethany hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet, though.” He’d been undoing a lot of knots lately. “Very intellectually stimulating, I’m sure.”

“Very,” Thaddeus agreed, but John thought he was just being polite.

“Why don’t we run him by the clinic first, just in case?” John suggested. One could never be too careful regarding germs from alien environments.

“Very well. I’ll let you take him, shall I?” Sherlock leaned towards John and the sloth obediently transferred himself from one man to the other. Sherlock straightened noticeably once the weight was gone. “I have some experiments I need to check on.”

“And perhaps say hello to the children?” John prompted, adjusting the chunk that was Thaddeus. He did not look forward to carrying him about.

“Oh, of course,” Sherlock agreed, as if this was understood. Perhaps by now it was. “Er… can we keep his bed in _your_ room?” he added, and John smirked. Some things you did _not_ want the sloths to hear and imitate.

“I suppose that would be best,” he agreed. “But _you_ have to give him clothing for his nest. He’s _your_ sloth.”

Sherlock had not apparently thought of this. “Yes, well, I’m sure I have… _something_ ,” that he could sacrifice to a sloth, since he would probably never want to wear it again.

“And you’ll have to bathe him once a week, and be sure he’s fed,” John reminded him, a bit more pointedly. “You _did_ think about that before accepting him, didn’t you?”

He could see the answer was no. “I _won_ him, John,” Sherlock repeated. “It would have been very rude to refuse him.”

“Very rude,” Thaddeus agreed. Out of deference to the lesser strength of humans, apparently, he had tried to position himself comfortably on John’s back.

“I’m sure,” John demurred, “but _someone_ has to take care of him. And _you’re_ the only one in the family without a pet.” Since he had been so _generous_ and gotten the children one each.

Sherlock grimaced, and Thaddeus stayed very still and silent. “Well, I’ll give it a try, I suppose,” he finally decided, not very graciously. “I’m sure someone else would want him if I don’t take to him,” he hedged. “George, maybe. Or Hal.”

“No matter what, he’ll be well taken care of,” John stated, more for the sloth’s benefit than Sherlock’s.

“Taken care of,” Thaddeus repeated quietly.

“Yes, you needn’t worry about that,” John promised him, patting his furry arm—though of course he _would_ worry, because who wouldn’t in such an uncertain situation?

“You just have such a _way_ with the creatures, John,” Sherlock praised, in a rather obvious attempt to mollify the other man. “Such— _understanding_ and _compassion_!” Two things Sherlock was not well-acquainted with.

John rolled his eyes but also smirked a little. “I’m taking your clothes for him,” he reiterated. “And you’re participating in sloth bath day!”

“Oh, certainly,” Sherlock claimed, starting to back away down the hall. John knew he was already trying to come up with a way out of it. But John wasn’t going to let him. If Sherlock brought a sloth in, he was going to have to get soaked on bath day just like John and Finn did.

“Come on, Thaddeus,” John sighed, summoning a door to the clinic. “Let’s get you checked over.”

**

Baker said Sherlock was in the playroom, so John knocked lightly on the door then stuck his head in to scope out the scene—he’d already gotten in trouble once for interrupting a crucial experiment Sherlock had been performing for the children. All seemed calm this time, though. Lily, with Lydia wrapped around her arm, was intently studying some caterpillars in a net cage in the corner; Finn was building an automatic rocker for a baby doll, while Roger played the part of the doll and Bethany played the part of life’s little obstacles to success; and Sherlock was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up, giving his full attention to Arthur, who was demonstrating tying his shoe. Upon successful completion of this goal, Puppy grabbed one of the laces and tugged until it was untied again, which was apparently what Arthur wanted.

“As you can see, we do very exciting things around here,” John murmured to Thaddeus.

“Exciting,” he repeated, in a tone of satisfaction.

Roger sat up suddenly, shaking off his baby doll dress and causing Finn to whine. Roger’s eyes went straight to the new sloth in the room and he made a clicking noise, which finally got Bethany to stop gnawing on Finn’s creation and look up. John hoped he wasn’t going to have any problems here—the guidebook had said imitative sloths preferred living in colonies. But you never knew.

He headed towards Finn first, taking care not to step on any of the bars or connectors strewn around the floor. “Roger! You’re supposed to be the baby, lay back down,” Finn commanded. “Bethany! Bring that back, I need that!”

“Sorry, I think I might have distracted them,” John admitted, sitting down on the floor.

Finn did a double-take and peered at Thaddeus, who blinked back. After a moment Finn reached his arm over his head to scratch his opposite ear, and Thaddeus did the same. “You got a new sloth!” he exclaimed excitedly.

“Yes, this is Daddy’s sloth, Thaddeus,” John introduced. “This is our son, Finn.”

“Our son Finn!” Thaddeus greeted.

“He’s so fat!” Finn giggled, rubbing his furry tummy.

“Fat!” Thaddeus repeated, a long arm reaching out to poke Finn’s stomach in return.

“Now, be polite,” John warned the boy. Finn started doing a wild, random dance, which Roger and Bethany automatically tried to mimic, but Thaddeus just climbed down to John’s lap and sat there contentedly. He was rather like a small child, only fuzzy and not so squirmy, John thought as he pet him. Finn, however, was obviously disappointed to not have _three_ attendants imitating him.

“Thaddeus is a little bit older, and might not be as active as the others,” John told Finn. Less active could be good, he thought, as Bethany twirled too hard and bumped into Finn’s rocker, sending the entire structure crashing to the floor.

John feared an outburst—as did Bethany, who scampered off to higher ground—but Finn just sighed. “It wasn’t working anyway,” he confessed dejectedly. “I can’t get the stabilizers right.”

“Stabilizers, stabilizers,” Thaddeus repeated kindly, commiserating on a universal problem. He leveraged himself off John’s lap and surveyed the scattered building materials, then began to gather some up purposefully. John got Bethany to come down to his shoulder—she seemed no worse for her collision—and Roger hopped onto Finn’s back and peered over his shoulder curiously. Thaddeus was not adept at fastening the connectors, but he was able to arrange some parts in a configuration that made sense to Finn.

“Oh, I see,” the boy said. “So if I put this here, and that over there—“

“Stabilize, stabilize!” agreed Thaddeus.

Eagerly Finn set to work. “He’s so clever, Papa,” he enthused, rebuilding his machine.

“Oh yes,” John agreed. “He used to belong to a professor, or something.”

“Professor,” Thaddeus acknowledged. He eased himself back into John’s lap, away from the energetic boy.

“Bethany, have you met Thaddeus?” John asked leadingly, trying to coax her down from his shoulder. “He’s Sherlock’s new sloth. His bed is going to be in my room, with yours.” This set off a burst of squeaking and clicking from Bethany, and it did _not_ sound like ‘welcome to the neighborhood.’ Thaddeus merely lounged in John’s lap and blinked up at her, occasionally clicking back.

“There’s no need to fuss, Bethany,” John tried to tell her. She frequently disagreed, however. “There’s plenty of room, he’ll have his own bed.” It was an extra-large one, almost more like a barrel, and John had put it on the opposite side of the room from hers. “He’ll use Sherlock’s clothes—“ Well, there was no telling what her motivation was, John decided—possibly just liking to squawk.

Suddenly Bethany was yanked off John’s shoulder and replaced by Roger, who had apparently gotten tired of the noise as well. “Roger, a little nicer, please,” John felt compelled to say, as Bethany scrambled up onto a bookshelf and turned her back on them all, so they could clearly see she was ignoring them.

Roger and Thaddeus had a conversation in sloth language, which seemed to go better. “Roger belongs to Finn, he sleeps in Finn’s room,” John offered, though he thought perhaps that was already being explained. “Er, as you can see, we’re used to a wide variety of sloths here.”

“Wide variety,” Thaddeus echoed good-naturedly, patting his own tummy.

“Lily, do you want to meet Daddy’s new sloth?” John invited, seeing the girl approach. “This is our daughter Lily, and her flower Lydia. Lydia is our friend, and not edible,” he added firmly.

“Our daughter, not edible,” Thaddeus agreed, as Lily knelt down to pet him. The grey sloth transferred amiably to her lap.

“He’s so cuddly,” she complimented. Roger and Bethany were not much for sitting still.

“Yes, he’s very cuddly,” John agreed. “Not sure Daddy will really appreciate that. Thaddeus, you should come to me if you need anything,” he offered. “If Sherlock forgets to feed you or something. He frequently forgets to feed himself, so don’t take it personally.”

“Personally.”

“Bath day is Friday,” John went on. Something about Thaddeus made it seem like he might be more interested in logistics than the other two. “I hope that’s alright.” Was it going too far to offer the older sloth a private bath? Though he’d never get Sherlock to do it himself in that case.

Fortunately Thaddeus didn’t seem to mind. “Alright, alright.”

John felt something start to crawl up the back of his shirt, and since Roger was now helping Finn rebuild his machine, he presumed it was Bethany. “We also have quite a lot of books and videos,” John continued to Thaddeus, remembering the lack of intellectual stimulation at his previous home. “The computer can help you find things.”

He’d seen Roger reading books on his own before and Bethany could call up cartoons, so apparently Baker responded to their commands as well. Every once in a while John checked on what they’d been looking at, to make sure they weren’t plotting to take over the ship or anything. It would all be in good fun, he was sure, but try explaining that to Mycroft.

Bethany appeared on his shoulder, wrapping her arm proprietarily around his neck and picking at his hair with her pointy fingers. “Bethany, did you know that Sherlock won Thaddeus in a game on the planet he visited?” John asked conversationally. “It was quite a surprise when he came back just now with a sloth!” Absurdly John didn’t want her to think this had been _planned_ , without consulting her. Maybe that was what Sherlock meant when he called John ‘funny about animals.’

He was not sure this had really mollified Bethany, however. “Sherlock loves Bethany!” she insisted.

“Well, Sherlock can love more than one sloth,” John tried to tell her. “Sherlock loves Lily _and_ Finn _and_ Arthur.” It wasn’t as if Sherlock really _expressed_ his alleged love for Bethany in any way, so John didn’t know what she feared losing.

Clearly children were not the same as sloths, and it may even have been insulting to compare them, judging from Bethany’s response. She was not making herself very endearing right now, in contrast to Thaddeus, who was being snuggled in Lily’s lap and gently stroking one of Lydia’s leaves.

“Beth—Bethany. Bethany! If you can’t be more pleasant I will send you to your bed,” John warned.

Bethany stopped her noise, but pulled a very unhappy face instead, which unfortunately looked rather silly on her. Finn pointed and laughed, and Roger took the opportunity to do so as well. Bethany took a deep breath, as if to give them a piece of her mind, but then she remembered John’s threat and stayed silent, though somehow he could hear her sulking on his shoulder. “Good girl, Bethany,” John praised, petting her. “You just ignore them.” He wasn’t sure this was much comfort.

“Thaddeus!” Sherlock summoned. “Come here and meet Arthur.”

“Arthur gets nervous around strangers, so just be patient,” John advised the sloth quickly, as he unfolded himself from Lily’s lap and swung over to Sherlock on his long arms. John resisted the urge to join them, trying to let Sherlock handle it. Besides, he had Bethany to placate at the moment.

Arthur had put his father between him and the approaching creature and peeked out gingerly from behind Sherlock’s shoulder. John didn’t remember being so timid when he was young, but it was a rather long time ago. Puppy barked suspiciously at the new entity, but Thaddeus let the little dog sniff his hand until he finally licked it, and then the sloth gave him a pat on the head. Thaddeus clearly had some experience with this sort of thing. Once the little dog accepted him Arthur felt more comfortable crawling around Sherlock’s side on all fours, eye level with the sloth. Then Arthur meowed.

Numerous authorities had assured John that Arthur was just going through a phase where he occasionally pretended to be a cat, and that he was not actually turning _into_ a cat, or thinking he _was_ a cat, which John did not find so far-fetched given Sherlock’s carelessness in the lab. Some cat genes could have gotten in there by mistake or something.

Thaddeus rolled with it, mimicking Arthur’s posture as best he could and meowing back. Then Arthur, Thaddeus, and Puppy formed an impromptu parade around the playroom, which Roger and Finn eventually joined, followed by Lily once she had put Lydia back in her vase. (Lydia did not care for parades.) Sherlock seemed thoroughly bemused by this activity but observed it for educational purposes.

John reached up to pet Bethany on his shoulder. “Don’t you want to join the parade, Bethany?” he suggested.

“Don’t,” she repeated sullenly.

“Come down here where I can see you,” John coaxed, drawing her onto his knee. “Now, what’s the matter? John loves Bethany, you know.”

“Bethany loves John!” she declared, wrapping her long arms around him.

He stroked her fluffy fur. “Well, good. But I wish you would be a little friendlier to Thaddeus,” he added. “He’s new, and doesn’t know anyone here.”

“Doesn’t?” Bethany repeated, gazing at the cheery parade he was in the midst of.

“So he’s good at getting along with people,” John conceded. “Er, beings. There’s still lots of new things here you could help him with.” He wasn’t sure if this was too abstract for Bethany or if she simply disagreed; but she made a little squeak and crawled up against his shoulder. “Oh, pretty Bethany,” John soothed, petting her. “You were new once, too, you know. You must have been very confused.” She’d certainly acted that way.

He felt her click was slightly defiant, as if there was no possible way she had ever been confused about anything. Ah, youth. “Well give him a chance, alright? I can always put his bed in a different room, but I thought it might be nice for you both to have some company.” Unless Sherlock was deep in an experiment John usually spent the night in his room, leaving Bethany on her own. She had not yet complained about that, and she was the sort to, so perhaps she liked the solitude at the end of the day.

Bethany did not have any thoughts to offer about that, however, as the parade ended and the participants scattered to other activities. Without really planning to, John and Sherlock changed places in the room, Sherlock coming to assist Finn and Lily with their engineering task with Thaddeus comfortably clinging to his back, and John moving over to play with Arthur.

“Are you my kitty-cat?” John asked the boy. “But where did Arthur go?”

Arthur giggled and meowed, and Bethany giggled and meowed, and Puppy barked and jumped around, so John supposed they were all happy. Arthur squirmed into his lap, demanding to be pet; John drew the line at licking, though—it was a little too Method for him. “Did you show Daddy how you can tie your shoes? Such a clever boy!” Puppy immediately grabbed Arthur’s shoelaces and untied them, so the boy could demonstrate his new skill. Cats did not wear shoes, after all, and therefore cats could not be proud of this achievement.

“How did you like Daddy’s new sloth?” John asked the boy. “Did he seem nice?” Arthur nodded readily. “He won’t be as active as the other two—“

As if to illustrate this point, or just generally interrupt, Bethany jumped down from John’s shoulder to Arthur. “Good kitty, good kitty!” she said, mussing his hair vigorously.

Arthur tolerated it well, though John quickly plucked her off. “Gentle, Bethany,” he chided. Bethany decided to turn somersaults on the floor—she was flexible enough to be a furry rolling ball—and Puppy chased after her. Before John could check if Arthur was upset by her attentions the boy popped up and started turning somersaults himself, though much more awkwardly. Ella had apparently been doing a unit on gymnastics lately at school. Naturally John had to intervene before they could all roll into Finn’s machine and destroy it a second time.

“Very good tumbling,” John praised. “Let’s sit up for a bit now, alright?” Arthur staggered dizzily to his lap and Bethany followed, though John wasn’t sure if _her_ staggering was real or imitative.

“Very good tumbling,” Thaddeus repeated kindly, from Sherlock’s back. He was staying out of the way as Sherlock and the children puzzled over the automatic rocker. John almost offered to take him, but then he saw Thaddeus peer over Sherlock’s shoulder and mutter something about actuators while pointing, so apparently he was helping.

Roger had been replaced by an actual baby doll—no doubt he was relieved, given how often the doll tumbled to the floor—and he hopped over to John, sitting on his unoccupied shoulder. “I won’t be able to carry all three of you at once, that’s for sure,” John warned, rocking Arthur. “Not all day, anyway. You may have to walk.”

Predictably Bethany protested, especially when Roger shoved her, repeating, “Walk! Walk!”

“A three-sloth household,” John went on, more to himself. “Never thought I’d have one of those. Oh, Baker? You better step up the vacuuming schedule.” More furry pets meant more hair on the carpet and furniture, after all.


	11. Sloth Bath Day, Part 4

Sloth bath day! And John had almost used up his supply of patience just getting everyone into the bathroom at the same time. Finn was in a whiny mood, Sherlock was worse, and Bethany actually _hid_ and had to be located and trapped by Baker. Thaddeus at least had no complaints; Roger didn’t voice any either but still managed to give the air of a condemned man marching to the gallows.

“Okay, honestly, guys, it’s just a _bath_ ,” John felt moved to point out, futile as it might be. “We do this every week. You should be used to it by now.”

“I’ve only done it once,” Sherlock corrected, irritatingly. John gritted his teeth. “Though, I think my technique was successful. These creatures need a firm hand.”

“Okay!” John said brightly, ignoring Sherlock’s oh-so-helpful comment. “We need a small basin, please.”

One appeared at hand and Finn put some warm water in it. “The basin will need to be larger,” Sherlock observed critically, “to fit all three of them.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” John conceded.

This was not good enough for Sherlock. “It’s patently obvious, John.”

John tried to give him a _look_ over Finn’s head, but Sherlock was impervious to _looks_ in his current mood. If he was trying to get expelled from the bathroom for obnoxiousness, he was doing a great job so far—but John wasn’t going to let him out of bath duty so easily.

John was about to ask Baker for a larger basin when he saw Thaddeus unwinding himself from his perch on Sherlock. Slowly the grey sloth climbed down to the edge of the tub, then into it, and reached a paw into the basin to test the water. Finding it satisfactory, he climbed in eagerly and began splashing water on himself.

John goggled for a moment, then quickly handed him a washcloth. The sloth started to scrub his long arms, happily warbling some kind of alien opera as he did so. By that point John had to cover his grin with his hand, not wanting to discourage Thaddeus.

“He’s washing himself!” Finn finally sputtered. “I didn’t know they could do that!”

“Ghastly racket he’s making,” Sherlock noted, but he pointed at Thaddeus and said to the other two, “There! Why don’t you imitate something useful for once?”

Roger and Bethany had quickly realized Thaddeus’s behavior was making them look bad; there was a certain willfulness, John felt, in the way they imitated _Sherlock_ instead, pointing at Thaddeus and remarking, “Ghastly!” The older sloth took no notice of them.

“How about a couple more small basins,” John requested. Perhaps keeping the sloths separated was the key. Finn added water to another basin and began tempting Roger to enter it.

“Well, mine seems to be getting on well, so I think I’ll just—“ Sherlock began, edging for the door.

“No,” John countered definitively. He put some water in the third basin and began the arduous process of getting Bethany into it.

Naturally Sherlock wanted to argue at the same time. “But Thaddeus is fine on his own, why should I—“

“Sherlock loves Bethany,” John interrupted, handing him the small, flailing sloth. “So, put her in the bath.” Out of self-preservation Sherlock was forced to comply, while John moved deftly out of arm’s reach. “Are you doing alright, Thaddeus?” he inquired solicitously. “Do you need some fresh water? How about the shampoo?”

“Roger, you can have some cheese if you’re good,” Finn reminded his pet in a tone of some desperation. John saw that the toy boat, the waterwheel, the bucket balance, _and_ the squirting whale had gone in Roger’s basin to tempt him.

“Roger, if you _don’t_ get in the water, we’re _removing_ toys,” John told him sternly. Roger knew John would do it, too, so after a bit more delay—just to show he knew his own mind—he finally got in.

“Shall I rinse you, Thaddeus?” John offered the sudsy sloth. “Here, cover your eyes.” John was very careful not to compare the sloths aloud—same with the children—but bath time was so much more _pleasant_ when one wasn’t constantly fighting the bather.

“John, is drowning allowed?” Sherlock asked with acidity, and John glanced over to see that the other man was thoroughly wet from Bethany’s thrashing. Of course she had been complaining vocally the whole time, but one learned to tune that out.

“Bethany, if you don’t settle down, you won’t get to wear your bow at the end,” John warned, and she made somewhat of an effort to contain her misery and outrage, which was not helped by Roger squirting her with the squirting whale toy. _That was predictable_ , John thought.

“Thaddeus, are you done?” he checked. “Ready to be dried off?” He was, but it was a bigger job than John anticipated to lift him from the tub sopping wet, and Sherlock had to jump in and help. Then they got the sloth bundled in a towel and patted dry, and as a reward for Sherlock’s assistance John let him blow-dry Thaddeus while he took over the task of washing Bethany. Who, John did not fail to notice, was fine in the water as long as no one paid attention to her.

“Thaddeus looks so nice now!” Finn pointed out, as the sloth’s dull grey fur had taken on a silvery tinge now that it was clean and dry.

“Very handsome!” John complimented. Thaddeus made a little bowing motion, then hopped up onto Sherlock’s back patiently.

“Well done, Thaddeus,” Sherlock told him. “The others always get treats after bathing, no matter how horribly they behave. Would you like something? We have cheese and hair bows available.”

Bethany, who had gone sullenly silent, piped up again with frantic clicks, and sadly John felt he knew what they meant. “No, Bethany, he’s not getting _your_ hair bows,” he sighed. “Perhaps he would prefer something else. Can you put your legs out? That’s my good girl.”

“Daddy, Roger’s done,” Finn announced. “Can you take him out for me?”

Valiantly Sherlock lifted Roger from the water and Finn dried him thoroughly. “You were so good, Roger!” Finn praised. He had indeed seemed much calmer without Bethany in the same tub to provoke, John noted.

Of course, that still left Bethany.

“Why don’t you go on and clean out their nests?” John suggested to the others. “Finn, you can show Daddy how to do it. And see what Thaddeus wants as his treat!” He didn’t want the older sloth to be shortchanged just because he hadn’t caused a fuss.

Sherlock and Finn were eager to escape, and once alone John turned back to Bethany, who blinked at him from big, wet eyes, already plotting her next squall. “Bethany, my dear,” he began patiently, “it would please me so much if you would behave yourself at bath time.”

“Bath time!” she echoed indignantly. Surely the reason for her displeasure should be obvious.

“But if you won’t,” he went on matter-of-factly, “bath time will occur anyway. I will do it separately from the others, you won’t get any extra attention, and no treat at the end. Now which would you prefer?”

His speech might be beyond Bethany’s capabilities, he thought. But after a long moment of decision she lifted her little flat duck foot out of the water for him. “Bethany loves John,” she reminded him.

He rewarded her with a big smile. “And John loves Bethany!” He cleaned one foot then the other, then started in with the shampoo, allowing her to play with a couple of toys though she tended to get a bit exuberant. He could see she was making an effort to take his corrections well, though, and he praised her for that.

Finally John was able to take her out of the tub and blow-dry her, making her puff up like a giant chocolate-colored fuzzball. Bethany liked this look, however, and selected a white bow for her treat. Carrying her out of the bathroom on his shoulder as she nuzzled happily against him, you would never realize she had ever been discontent, except perhaps for the water sloshed all over John’s jumper and jeans.

“Now I’ll just clean out your nest and you can start a new one,” he reminded her as he headed to his room. “Perhaps you’d like to use my blue—“ He broke off as he saw the state of his bedroom—it was covered in piles of clothing, for the most part neatly folded, and Thaddeus sat on his bed inspecting a shirt as Sherlock looked on.

“Rude!” Bethany declared, pointing. She could tell someone was about to get into trouble and was just glad it wasn’t her.

John was about to snap at Sherlock to ask what he was doing—it was _Sherlock’s_ clothes lying around, not his—but he supposed that actually, it was obvious.

“Sherlock.”

“Oh, finally got the little monster clean, did you?” Sherlock replied disdainfully. “I don’t know how you—“

“Don’t talk about Bethany that way,” John interrupted sharply, as the little sloth went very still on his shoulder. “You know she understands you, don’t call her names. It’s cruel.”

Sherlock seemed slightly startled by John’s vehemence, but he quickly took his point. “You’re right, I apologize,” he responded.

“Bethany?” John checked, concerned by her silence.

The little sloth bounded from John’s shoulder to Sherlock’s, disturbing several piles of clothes along the way. “Bethany loves Sherlock!” she announced, hugging his face with enthusiasm.

Sherlock was able, after a moment, to get his hands around her and pry her off. “Yes, well, that’s good to know,” he claimed, with as much dignity as he could. Bethany was still able to reach his hair with her long arms and twine her pointy fingers through it.

This had put John in a better mood, at least. “Did you bring your entire wardrobe over for Thaddeus to pick through for his nest?” he surmised, starting to clean out Bethany’s cylinder.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, allowing Bethany to stay on his shoulder as long as she didn’t keep touching his face. “It seems to be a critical element.”

John retrieved the toy Sherlock had ‘given’ Bethany, along with a stuffed figure John had made for her in a recent craft class, before dumping the remainder of the cloth down the laundry chute. “They usually just want something soft, that smells like you,” he advised Sherlock.

“Mine! Mine!” Bethany exclaimed when John gave her the toys. “Sherlock loves Bethany! John loves Bethany!”

“Yes, we do!” John assured her cheerfully, straightening her bow. It always amused him to see Sherlock putting up with her. Then he went back to vacuum out her nest.

When he turned off the vacuum he heard Sherlock’s irritated tones. “No, you can’t have _that_ , I _use_ that,” he was telling Thaddeus, who let go of the blue dressing gown with reluctance. “John, this is impossible!”

“Oh, don’t complain so much,” John suggested, as Thaddeus looked slightly abashed. “You’ve given him too many choices. How about this?” John plucked Sherlock’s blue scarf from a pile—he hardly needed that inside the ship—and handed it to the sloth. “There, what do you think of that?” Thaddeus sniffed the scarf delicately and turned it over, as if inspecting its quality. “Acceptable?” John prompted.

“Acceptable, acceptable,” Thaddeus agreed, and maneuvered himself off the bed.

“You cleaned out his nest already?” John checked. Sherlock indicated yes and they watched as the large sloth lowered himself into the barrel, taking his prize with him. “He’ll have a nice rest now, and maybe you can play with him later.”

John had momentarily forgotten he was not speaking to Finn about Roger. “I don’t _play_ with Thaddeus,” Sherlock sputtered. “He’s helping me organize my biological specimens—“

“Sorry, you’re right,” John assured him, chuckling a little. He slide his arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer. “Thank you for helping with the baths. I did suggest you change first, though.”

“Yes.” Sherlock seemed to see the logic in that now. “That must be done every week?”

“Every week,” John reiterated firmly. “Even if Thaddeus can do most of it himself you have to dry him before he gets chilled. Did you give him a treat?”

“White bow, white bow,” Bethany butted in, her head right next to theirs.

“Oh, pretty Bethany!” John broke away from Sherlock to pick up the sloth and carry her to his bureau, stepping carefully around Sherlock’s clothing. “I thought you would like this.” He pulled a blue sweatshirt emblazoned with the St. Bart’s logo from a drawer and handed it to her, then set her on top of her cylinder. She chucked her toys in with a thunk, then began to examine the piece of clothing. From inside Thaddeus’s barrel could be heard soft snores.

John went back to Sherlock. “You’re going to pick up all these clothes?” he asked.

“Baker,” Sherlock summoned and the clothes disappeared, presumably returned to Sherlock’s drawers and closet. John heard something like a snort, as if the powerful computer couldn’t believe it was being used for such a task.

Still. “That’s better,” John praised, cozying up to Sherlock again.

“I can be responsible with living things, John,” Sherlock noted, leaning his head down to brush John’s lips.

“Mmm, yes, I don’t know why I doubted you,” John murmured in return.

“Mmm-mwhaaa!” said Bethany loudly, making smooching noises from her perch.

John and Sherlock quickly broke apart, rolling their eyes. “Let’s relocate,” John suggested, taking Sherlock’s hand.

“Agreed. Though having spent so much time touching animals I may need a shower now,” Sherlock warned.

“Bath day does tend to inspire that,” John nodded.

**

John limped into the book storage room in a state of hearty regret. “I say, are you being attacked?” George asked, looking up from the pile of books he was scanning.

“It feels that way sometimes,” John sighed. “Go on, get off!” He had Thaddeus hanging down his back, Roger clinging to his arm, and for balance, Bethany scampering up and down his opposite leg. As the sloths disengaged for perches on tables and shelves John was finally able to straighten up fully.

“Thaddeus thanks John,” Thaddeus said politely, which made John feel better.

“Oh, you’re welcome—“

“Thanks,” Roger repeated, as if he was tasting a new fruit. “Thanks! Thanks?”

“Thanks thanks thanks!” Bethany echoed, from high on a shelf. It sounded more like a curse.

John tried to ignore the smaller sloths. “Here you go, Thaddeus, this should be the right section.” He lifted him onto a shelf then sat down wearily in a chair at George’s table.

“That’s the imitative sloth Sherlock won in a game?” George surmised. “He’s an impressive fellow!”

“Yes, he’s very bright,” John agreed, trying to keep an eye on Bethany and Roger. They seemed to think real books were more like irregular building bricks to be stacked and leaned. “Sherlock promised him a new book as a treat. Bethany, if _one book_ hits the ground, I’m sending you home,” he warned, seeing her poke at a precarious stack. “Of course you can’t take one sloth out without all the others wanting to come, too,” he added to George. Yet somehow, Sherlock had managed _not_ to be here.

“I’m really going to get one,” George vowed, looking enviously at Thaddeus carefully leafing through a book. “Next market we come to. Maybe an older one like this fellow, who could help tutor the children.”

“Yes, I think Thaddeus is more Susanna’s speed,” John agreed dryly. “Bethany, come here and sit with me. Now, please.” Dragging her long arms behind her forlornly Bethany complied. She had been getting just a little too energetic near the rare folios for John’s comfort. Well, _all_ books from Earth were rare now, weren’t they? “Here, you can look at this,” John told her by way of distraction, setting a comic book down in front of her. “So how’s the program going with the children?”

“Oh, Susanna has big ideas, you know,” George described fondly. “All the things she wants to teach them about music and art and science. And all her little experiments—one group where everything is taught in relation to archery and art, one group that takes turns teaching each other, groups that focus on qualities like bravery and truth.”

He didn’t seem to think any of these ideas were odd, so John tried not to, either. “It sounds like she’s given it a lot of thought,” he commented neutrally.

“POW!” said Bethany, and John patted her head.

“Oh yes,” George agreed. “So many plans and schemes. Really kept her happy for months, the planning.” He sighed and John sensed a reversal coming.

“Sha-ZAM!” warned Bethany.

“But?”

“Turns out the children don’t always follow the careful instructions Susanna prepared,” George explained. He did not seem surprised by this. “Apt to run about chattering instead.”

“BLAM!” sympathized Bethany. John was beginning to think the comic book might not have been such a good idea for her.

“That must be very frustrating for her,” John replied, privately glad he didn’t have to deal with Susanna and her plans going awry.

“Yes,” George understated. “But you know, kids will be kids. At least they’re happy, right?”

“Right, that’s true—“

Bethany suddenly raced to the end of the table and jumped off while yelling, “WHOOSH!”

John ducked down to make sure she’d landed safely—Roger had apparently broken her fall and now they were squabbling—so John took the opportunity to hide the comic book. “They’ll need more survival-type skills, won’t they?” he questioned George, nudging the two sloths apart with his foot. “When we find a suitable planet for a colony. Building shelters and making clothing and cooking.” He winced only slightly as Bethany began to claw her way up his leg.

“Oh yeah,” George agreed, politely oblivious to the sloth drama. “Kids love that practical, hands-on stuff. Maybe she should switch to that for a while, quantum mechanics and Sagittarian opera might be too abstract for them.”

“KAPOW THUNK SNIKT!” Bethany was trying to tell John. This vital information was some kind of complaint about Roger, who merely mimicked her. Ironically imitative sloths really hated it when you imitated _them_.

“Thaddeus, have you chosen a book yet?” John prompted, keeping Roger and Bethany separated. “Be a little mature and stop goading her,” he told Roger.

“Goad!” repeated Roger, pointing at Bethany.

“Mature!” hissed Bethany, pointing back.

Thaddeus indicated a hardbound book and John considered carrying it back to Sherlock’s room… along with three sloths… two of whom were either fighting or pretending to be comic book antagonists. Then he thought better of it. “Baker, can you put that book in our living room, please, and I’ll need a shortcut back to our hallway.” The book disappeared, and a door formed in the wall that led to John and Sherlock’s wing when Thaddeus opened it.

John stood, holding Roger and Bethany in separate hands. “Nice to see you, George—“

“Ugly, mate!” added Roger cheerfully.

“Ugly ugly ugly!” insisted Bethany, trying to outdo him.

“How do you manage the ship like that?” George wondered, exchanging a complicated handshake with Roger. “It never makes shortcuts for _me_.”

“VROOM!” said Bethany.

“Sherlock says I have simple thoughts,” John told him dryly.

“Oh, I see,” George nodded. “Bye-bye, sloths!”

“Bye-bye! Bye-bye!” repeated Bethany, waving to him over John’s shoulder.

“Bethany, my love, we’re going to look into lowering your sugar intake,” John muttered.


End file.
